Love in the Time of Richonne: A Collection of AUs
by love.devil.movies.baby
Summary: Love knows no boundaries, not even those of time and space. Rick and Michonne find one another across history. The circumstances of their meetings may change, but one thing remains: these two are inevitably drawn to one another. A collections of historical AU collaborations between msdoomandgloom and myself.
1. Lady Luck Pt 1

**A/N: Turns out msdoomandgloom and I have a bit of a collaboration problem. And by that, I mean we can't seem to stop collaborating. We have a few stories lined up for you, with spectacular artwork to accompany it. Here's the first of many historical AUs. **

**Find her on social media to see her full works, and leave a review if you like them! Enjoy**

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The dressing room at the Moulin Rouge resembled a three-ring circus. Performers were in the throes of show preparation, winding and diving between one another in a mad scramble for sequins, feathers, high heels, and rhinestones. The air was scented with perfume, pressed powder, and cigarettes, a haze hanging over the room. The fluorescent lights flickered over the vanity mirrors. Michonne peered into the glass, adjusting her crimson lipstick.

"2 minutes, ladies!" The stage director bellowed through the open door.

The dancers buzzed like bees, rushing to pull on their headdresses. Michonne adjusted her own feathered cap, slipping her feet into her pair of stilettos. The spiked heels pressed into the tile as she joined the line.

"Remember, chins up, tits out!" The stage director shouted instructions. "And smile ladies!"

One by one, the women pasted on bright grins. Michonne fixed her own expression into place, sweeping out the door with the others. The bright lights blinded her but she kept in step, swinging her layered skirt to the music. They kicked up their heeled feet, and the crowd went crazy.

The cheers drowned out even the music, but Michonne knew every beat of the routine by heart. She spun, smiling, swishing her costume with gusto. Her garter slid up her thigh. She flashed it as though it were some kind of brazen secret at the men watching down below, perfectly synchronized with the rest of the chorus line.

She longed to see the audience, the way she had every night for three months. Las Vegas was every dancer's dream, the hub of nightlight in America. The hotels glittered like jewels along Fremont Street, tempting in visitors by the thousands. There was no pleasure Vegas did not offer, no experience off-limits for the right price. Casinos, shows, buffets, and nightclubs were all ripe for the taking.

Of every hotel in this booming little town, only one was integrated. Michonne had heard about the plans for the Moulin Rouge months before it opened. It was listed in _Jet_, a whole spread about what the casino was set to become. She'd boarded the bus heading west and never looked back. The first day it had opened, Michonne had been at the door to audition.

Now, she stepped to the music, the roar of the crowd pumping in her blood. She could make out the figures at the tables as the lights gradually lowered, silhouetted by neon. Her eyes scanned the crowd as the main act took center stage. She'd seen celebrities at these tables, Sammy Davis Jr., Louis Armstrong, but tonight, the audience shocked her. Amongst the brown faces she'd grown accustomed to were men with decidedly paler features. This was not exactly new in and of itself, but these men were not average viewers- if appearances were to be believed.

Michonne was not the only one who noticed. The dancers sashayed in orderly rows off the stage as the lounge singers took their places. The women began to buzz immediately, shimmying out of their first costumes and into even scantier attire.

"I hear they work for Sinatra," one of the girls gushed. She applied rhinestone pasties with studious precision.

"Uh-uh," another shook her head, her feathers fanning back and forth as she fitted the skirt over her hips, "I heard they work for Lansky. He works for the mob, you know."

The buzz increased at this simple statement. Michonne was not sure of its credibility, but one thing was clear.

"They must be important," Michonne wiggled out of her first dress and into her jeweled bikini bottoms. "They're seated front and center." The stones warmed quickly against her heated skin, covering only what was strictly necessary for public decency's sake.

"Maybe they'll tip well," another girl looked enthused at the mere prospect.

Whoever the men were, they proved to be attentive audience members. There were only two of them, one dark haired, the other more fair. They watched with rapt attention as the show unfolded. Michonne had seen lust in the eyes of men, love even. The dark haired man was looking at her with obvious appreciation, but it was the blue eyes of his associate that sent a bolt through her. This man looked at her with something akin to awe.

She looked down at him, smiling the way she had for hundreds of spectators before. Her hips swung in a seductive rhythm as she kept pace with the rest of the dancers. Blue eyes followed her motions, tracking the sway of her waist, the bounce of her breasts. Michonne felt herself becoming distracted under his unwavering attentions, warm in a way she was unused to. She nearly missed a step.

She forced herself to not look down for the duration of the set, focusing on her movements instead. Her muscles burned, her feet ached, her head throbbed under the weight of her headdress, but she felt exhilarated nonetheless. She was sweating and breathless by the time they retired, exiting the stage to thunderous applause.

"Michonne," the stage director stopped her from changing out of her costume. "They want to meet you,"

"Me?" Michonne asked, startled. The singers often were the sought after ones. As far as she knew, no one had ever requested a dancer by name.

"They asked for the girl with the hair," he shrugged. "That's you." He gestured to the thick coils of her locs, curled and pinned to match the rest of the dancers.

She resented the description, but sought answers. "Who are they?" She questioned.

"Big wig talent agents," the stage director looked her up and down. "I'd leave that costume on if I were you. Maybe lose the top."

Michonne resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Instead, she pulled a nearly sheer robe over her costume and strode out on her stilettos, projecting a confidence she wasn't sure she felt. The pair in question were still seated at their table. They were dressed to the nines, outfitted in tailored suits, their hair brushed and parted the way the wealthy white men were prone to styling it. Both were handsome, Michonne noticed. Dark eyes had a dangerous sort of appeal. She knew instinctively that he was the kind of man that thrived in Vegas. She would bet that he'd be at the high roller tables within the hour, cigar hanging from his mouth, a woman under one arm, and a drink in the other hand. The other though, his expression betrayed far less. His eyes were still on her, dark blue in the smoky light of the casino. His partner noticed her presence at last, turning in his seat to look at her.

"Good evening, gentlemen," she put on her brightest smile, simpering in her sweetest tones. "How can I help you tonight?"

"What's your name, sweetheart?" The darker haired of the two addressed her. He wore a smirk familiar to her, making no secret of his attraction when his brown eyes roved over her.

"Michonne Marron," she answered, her smile not cracking. This man was becoming less handsome by the moment. Still, she knew that her fellow dancers were crowded just out of sight offstage, watching the exchange. More than a few of them would not be so adverse to his attentions. Opportunity was opportunity, and she wasn't about to squander it because one man had no couth.

"Michonne," the man rolled her name around his mouth, his deep southern accent tripping over the syllables. "I like that." He glanced at his partner. "It's pretty, ain't it, Grimes?"

The man beside him cleared his throat. "Beautiful," he said, his accent just as strong as his cohorts. His gaze remained on her face and not her costume. He took a sip of clear liquid from the tumbler in front of him.

"We were hoping you'd dance for us," the other man spoke. "They say you're one of the best ones here."

Michonne longed to ask who it was who was talking about her. Instead, she widened her smile. "We have another show at midnight," she offered.

"We were thinking something more private," the man said.

His blue-eyed partner threw him an irritated look. He pulled the linen from his lap, setting it on the white tablecloth in front of him before standing. "Michonne," he addressed her directly, "Please sit." He pulled the empty chair at his table out, gesturing to her.

"Always so polite," his cohort mumbled without any real malice. He gestured to a waitress. Michonne busied herself by sitting, arranging her robe so that it did not ride up too high on her legs.

"Can I get you a drink?" the man called Grimes asked her.

Michonne shook her head. "I don't drink at work," she explained, trying to look gracious.

"Looks like you've got something in common," the other man took a healthy pull of his glass of whisky. He turned to the waitress. "Darling, I'm gonna get another one of these," he lifted the empty cup. "And these two are going to get water or something."

Grimes looked towards Michonne, silently prompting her. "Cranberry juice please, Maggie," she told the young waitress.

The green eyes girl nodded. "And you, sir?"

"Water's fine," he smiled politely at her.

The waitress scurried off. Michonne sat silently at the table, her curiosity growing by the moment. The pair of them were better off than she'd first suspected. Silver cufflinks, leather shoes, golden watches… they all made her wonder who exactly she was sitting with. Maggie returned with the drinks. Michonne sipped at hers, the tart tang of the cranberry dancing on her taste buds.

Perhaps the men realized their rudeness because the dark haired man retrieved a cigarette from a case in his jacket pocket before looking towards his partner. "You want to explain why we're here since you've got a problem with how I do it?" he asked sardonically.

Grimes took another sip of his ice water, looking amused. He looked to Michonne again. "We're putting together a new kind of show," he said to her. "The other casinos are looking to follow what the Moulin Rouge is doing here. We're looking for the very best."

"You'd like me to audition?" Michonne's smile grew more genuine.

"We do," he reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and retrieved a cardboard card. "Give us a call tomorrow and we'll set up a time." His fingers brushed hers as he handed it over.

She read it, noting his first name. Richard Grimes apparently worked as a talent promoter for both the Golden Nugget and the Flamingo. Michonne's heart skipped a beat, rumors of these two hotels tumbling in her mind. "You know gentleman," she began carefully. "I'm quite happy with my place as a chorus girl here."

The other man snorted, blowing out a match as he finished lighting the end of his cigarette. "Is that so, sweetheart?" he asked. "Lanky's hotels too glamorous for you?"

Michonne bit back a rude response, settling instead on widening her smile. "At the Moulin Rouge, when I'm done working, I can sit out here and watch the shows," she gestured to the stage. "Maybe even have a drink. Tell me, will the Flamingo or the Nugget offer me the same courtesy?"

The blue eyed man looked impressed at her gall but his partner flushed. "The girl's got sass," he said around a puff of tobacco. Michonne held his gaze.

"Walsh," Richard Grimes sighed.

"All right," Walsh held his hands out in surrender. "I'm just saying that even Sammy don't complain about the Nugget."

Grimes leveled a look at him that silenced Walsh immediately. He turned his blue eyes back to Michonne. "It's a unique opportunity we're offering," he explained. "I'd appreciate it if you could give me a call." He tapped the card in her hand.

"Well, thank you," she tucked it into her robe pocket. "I'd better go backstage and get ready for the next set."

Grimes nodded, seemingly satisfied. Walsh spoke up again. "Looking forward to seeing your next outfit," he told her.

Michonne offered a simpering laugh before standing. Grimes rose to his feet as she did, holding out a hand for her to shake. She took it, feeling the calloused palm beneath his heavy jewelry. Walsh stood reluctantly as well, offering his hand. The two watched her retreat backstage.

Michonne tried to put the pair out of her mind as she went about preparing for her next set. They were gone when she took the stage again. She danced her way through the rest of the show, happily retiring at night's end. She shook off the questions of her coworkers, insisting that she did not know what the two men wanted. Mob entanglements were a thing that the Moulin Rouge could not afford to mix with. With that in mind, Richard Grimes' business card was tucked safely into her clutch, well out of sight.

Michonne returned home, dumping the contents of her purse atop her dresser as she removed her makeup and crawled into a hot bath. It remained there for three days and nights, hidden beneath tubes of lipstick, compacts of rouge, and crumpled dollar bills. In fact, she didn't think about it at all. It wasn't until she walked into work one evening, dressed in her street clothes, that she remembered their offer.

"Miss Michonne," her name startled her as she walked through the front doors of the Moulin Rouge. The casino was occupied as always, but the day crowd was much more tame than the night. She spun on her heel, taking in the man standing near the slot machines.

"Mr. Grimes," she greeted coolly. He was still in a suit, though his jacket was gone. The pale blue of his cotton shirt suited him incredibly well. In fact, he was more handsome in the light of day than he'd been in the smoky ballroom. He was considerably more at ease without Walsh, leaning casually against the wall.

"They say you're supposed to wait three days to call a girl back," he remarked, his lips quirked at the corners. "I wasn't sure what the protocol is for waiting on a call from a beautiful woman."

Compliments from strangers were nothing new. Her reaction, however, perplexed her. She liked his eyes one her. Michonne paused, hiking her purse higher onto her arm. "Like I said, Mr. Grimes, I appreciate the offer, but I like the Moulin Rouge."

He shrugged, leaving his post on the wall to walk towards her. "I can't blame you," he looked around the casino, clearly impressed. "And you can call me Rick."

"Well, Rick," she smiled, "Thank you for the offer, but I must decline."

"You don't know what the job is," he pointed out.

"I know the resorts you represent used to be Siegel hotels," she fired back.

This time it was he who smiled. "His reputation precedes him," Rick chuckled.

"It does," Michonne confirmed.

Rick stared at her, his eyes narrowed, clearly deep in thought. Michonne's pulse began to raise but she held her ground, refusing to be intimidated.

"All right," he bit his bottom lip, nodding. "I can see you're not going to come work for me." He tucked his hands in his pocket. "Maybe I can convince you of something else." His eyes flicked over her again, taking her in from her black ballet flats to her hastily styled high ponytail.

"What's that?" she asked, throat suddenly tight.

"Have dinner with me," he offered, rocking on the balls of his feet.

"Dinner?" she laughed at the absurdity of it. Whatever she had been expecting, this was not it.

"Dinner," he repeated, grinning just the slightest. "Martin, Davis, and Sinatra are performing this weekend at an event. Come with me."

Michonne gaped, her mind racing to catch up with this new development. "I'll have to work," she said, stammering. "If I miss, I'll lose my spot."

Rick shrugged again. "I'll pick you up after then," he suggested. "Those Rat Pack boys like to party late."

She considered this, her mind warring with her desire. She'd never seen a Vegas show before, not one that she wasn't a part of, at least. "Where's it at?" she questioned cautiously.

"Private party," Rick said. "Sinatra's throwing a shindig." He announced this with the air of a person discussing the weather.

"How did you get invited to that?" she asked, impressed despite herself.

Rick grinned outright this time. "If you'd have called me back, you might already know," he teased.

Michonne shook her head, attempting to hide her amusement. "And if you show up with me on your arm…" she began.

"I'm going to make a hell of a lot of men at that party jealous," he finished for her. He stepped even closer to her, standing just out of reach. Michonne could smell the sharp scent of his cologne, could see the curls of his hair struggling to free themselves from his slicked back coif. "What do you say, Michonne?" he asked. "Saturday night?"

She considered, weighing the pros and cons. "I'll be done at midnight," she said at last. "What should I wear?"

"You seem like the type of gal with fashion sense," his eyes darted over belted black dress. "I don't think I need to tell you how to dress."

Michonne inhaled. "Then I guess I'll see you Saturday, Rick." She stepped backwards.

"See you Saturday, Michonne," he called after her, watching as she walked away. She chanced a glance at him over her shoulder, flushing when he smiled at her and waved. She quickened her steps, embarrassed.

"I see ol' blue eyes came back for you," one of the girls observed as Michonne entered the dressing room, breathless. "What did he want this time?"

Michonne set her purse down and flipped the switch to her vanity, illuminating her makeup table.

"I'm not sure," she said truthfully, sitting down to fuss with her hair, trying to calm her sudden onslaught of nerves. "But I think I have a date on Saturday."


	2. Lady Luck Pt 2

**A/N: Here comes part two! Thanks for the fantastic response to the first chapter, and to msdoomandgloom's stunning art. We hope you like the next installment. Part 3 is coming soon. **

**Enjoy!**

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"Not that one," one of the showgirls protested. "Michonne, you've gotta be kidding."

"What's wrong with it?" Michonne held up the hanger. The little black dress swung from it, attracting the attention of the whole chorus line.

"The man is taking you on a date to meet Sinatra, and you're going to wear that?" Another dancer was scandalized.

"I look good in this," Michonne pointed out. She'd spent the better part of the morning contemplating her outfit before stomping to her closet and seizing the classic little black dress. She fully intended to stick with her choice, chiding herself for overthinking the whole event. The last few days, she'd contemplated Rick's motivations for asking her out to no avail. She attempted to keep the liaison a secret, but he'd called the casino to confirm their date the night before. The action drew the attention of nearly everyone who worked at the Moulin Rouge. It only increased her anxiety.

"Well obviously," another woman rolled her eyes. "He probably takes out women who look good all the time. You need to stun him."

"Who says I want to stun him? _Or_ have him take me out again?" Michonne pointed out, arching an eyebrow. Her protest sounded thin even to her own ears.

The room collectively scoffed, laughing in disbelief. "The blue eyed one, right?"

"Yeah," Michonne nodded. Those eyes had haunted her for the better part of the week. The laughter in the dressing room escalated.

"The handsome one?" another pointed out. "With the good hair?"

Michonne grudgingly nodded. "Was he really that handsome though?" she questioned the group. The answer was another round of resounding laughter.

"Yes! And he had manners. Why wouldn't you want him to take you out again? Look at Sammy Davis and his wife, or Eartha and her husband. Might be more of these white folks are figuring it out." Sasha, the showgirl who started the whole conversation snatched the dress from her hands. Michonne opened her mouth to protest but her friends were hearing none of it. "Even if you don't want a second date, have some self respect. You're representing the Moulin Rouge in front of all those big wig boys. This isn't the time to be modest."

This, at least, was a fair point. "All right," Michonne nodded. She strode on bare feet to her section of the clothing racks, trying not to look overly eager. "Dorothy Dandridge?" she asked, holding up a swanky lace number.

The women considered this. "No," one shook her head. "Dorothy isn't right for a Vegas party. Lola Falana?" she asked, gesturing to a short gold dress from one of their numbers.

"Too showy," another protested. "She's gotta have class. You don't want them thinking we're all just here to be ogled."

"A little ogling wouldn't hurt," Sasha pointed out. "Might get more of those talent promoters in the club."

A silence spread over the dressing room, broken only by the music from the radio in the corner. A familiar song began to play, a sultry, raspy voice providing inspiration.

_Prim and proper, the girl who's never been cased_

_I'm tired of being pure and not chased..._

"Then is has to be Eartha Kitt," Michonne announced. She thumbed through the clothing rack, searching.

"Yes," another girl named Connie agreed enthusiastically. "It's gotta be Eartha."

"Leopard print?" Michonne brandished the tight number and its matching fur trimmed coat.

"No," Sasha shook her head. "That's too much. The white one?"

"She's not getting married," Connie pointed out. "At least not yet." she winked.

Michonne held in a laugh. "It's just a date," she reminded them. Still, she continued sorting through her clothing, wondering vaguely what might impress Rick Grimes.

"The purple one," Connie snapped her fingers. "You should wear the plum."

"Oh yeah," Sasha bounced on the balls of her feet. "You'll knock 'em all dead for sure."

Michonne lifted the dress in question. It had a tight fitting skirt, silk, with a slit that went straight up to her thigh. The top portion was long sleeved, made of a deep, shimmering fabric with a plunging neckline.

"Hell," Connie laughed. "In a dress like that, you might leave with Dean Martin instead of your date."

Michonne shook her head as the women giggled around her. "It will draw attention for sure," she admitted. She could almost picture the look on Rick's face when he glimpsed her in it.

She pulled the dress on carefully. When she attempted to add pantyhose for modesty's sake, they pressed fishnets on her. Michonne rolled them up her lotioned legs as her friends scrambled for makeup and earrings. She was steered into the chair and instructed to stay still as they wiped away her stage makeup. Sasha studiously applied eyeliner in a thick dark line, sweeping it up for a cat-like effect. They lined her brows, dusted gold onto her eyelids, and swept a light ruby gloss over her lips. Connie fussed with Michonne's hair, twisting her locs into tight spirals until large curls framed her face.

"You look like a Hollywood star," Connie breathed. The dancers all scrambled backwards to allow Michonne to get a look at herself in the vanity.

"Thank you, girls," Michonne gasped, studying herself in the mirror.

"Break a leg," Sasha handed Michonne her purse. "Make us look good," she grinned.

Rick was waiting in front of the lobby, standing beside his powder blue Cadillac parked in valet. He was in a dark navy suit, forgoing a tie in lieu of a bright red pocket square. His hat was in his hands, leaving his curly hair exposed to the elements. His eyes found hers immediately as she exited the front doors.

He let out a low whistle, straightening up to meet her at the curb. "This probably isn't news to you, but you look stunning," he dropped his gaze to her feet then slowly made his way back up. He was flushing just to look at her, his neck going scarlet.

"You look pretty sharp yourself," she accepted his hand, stepping down from the curb in her heels. A chill ran through her at his touch, pebbling her skin.

"Are you cold?" he asked her, helping her to his car. He lifted the jacket hanging off his other arm.

"I'm fine," she smiled at him. Her heart was hammering beneath her dress.

Rick opened the door for her, helping her inside. "You've got to be starving after your show," he walked around to the driver's side, sliding in beside her. "They'll be food at the party." He smiled at her, pausing before he started the car to just look at her.

Michonne stared back, heat flooding her face. "Are you alright?" she asked, squirming a bit in her seat.

Rick grinned, shaking his head as though he needed to clear his thoughts. "Yeah," he turned the car engine over, steering them away from the Moulin Rouge. "Just feeling lucky."

"Oh yeah?" she asked, adjusting the seat belt over her dress.

"Yeah," he glanced at her again. "I might be the luckiest sonuvabitch in all of Vegas tonight."

Michonne laughed. "I guess you really like the dress," she said. She fiddled with the neckline plunging between her breasts, trying to ignore the way Rick was clearly struggling not to look at them.

"I like the woman wearing it," Rick didn't miss a beat.

Michonne was glad that he turned his eyes back to the road as she flushed beneath her makeup. The desert streets were dark as Rick drove them away from the glittering neon on Fremont Street. The radio hummed a Nina Simone song in the background. Michonne leaned into the leather seats, trying to calm her nerves. She felt the way she did before taking the stage the first time.

Rick steered the car up a long lit driveway. An ivory house was at the end, shimmering like a jewel. Music leaked from the windows and dozens of men and women dressed to the nines were exiting luxury cars, filing into the house.

"Wow," Michonne breathed. Rick grinned at her.

"Don't be nervous," he told her, handing his keys to a valet as he came around to help her out of his car.

"How do you know these people?" she asked, taking his hand.

Rick pulled her to his side, grinning. "You read my card?" he asked.

She nodded, walking instep with him. "I did."

"Then you know I'm a talent agent," he said, guiding her up the stairs.

"Half of the men in Vegas are talent agents. They don't know Sinatra though," Michonne countered.

The doors of the house were opened to them. She nearly gasped again. Some of the Vegas casinos didn't house glamor like this. Golden light illuminated a room with plush dark carpet, marble columns, and a grand piano pressed into the corner. Someone was already playing. Michonne realized with a start that it was Sammy Davis Jr. The crowd itself was a mixed bag, looking more like the lobby of the Moulin Rouge than Michonne could have possibly hoped. She relaxed just the slightest.

Rick looked amused. "Fair enough," he handed his jacket and hat to a blonde doorman before accepting two flutes of champagne from a tray. He offered her one. "I guess I'm a good one, then." He held up the glass, toasting her.

Michonne clinked hers against it, still confused. "How did you-"

"Michonne," he cut her off kindly. "I'll answer all your questions," he promised. "But first, enjoy yourself." He took her arm again, steering her into the party. "Deal?" he asked.

Michonne looked around, taking in the faces of the high rollers of Vegas. She moved her eyes to the man next to her. Rick was smiling, looking at her like she was the most impressive person in here. "Alright," she sipped her champagne, marveling at the taste, "deal."

His grin widened. "Let me introduce you to some people," he took her arm, guiding her through the crowd. They brushed elbows with a few of Rick's associates. His pride was thinly veiled as he introduced her to a dozen or so partygoers. She drew curious glances, but if anyone had rude comments, they kept them to themselves. Michonne sipped her drink, willing her nerves to calm. Rick, by contrast, was perfectly at ease. He remained by her side, waving and grinning at people in turn.

"I expected a tougher crowd," Michonne said cautiously once they were gifted a moment alone.

Rick took her point immediately. "Not everyone is so bad," he explained. "And after Siegel got killed, a lot of those guys started straightening out their acts," he told her.

Michonne threw him a skeptical look. Rick laughed.

"All right," he admitted. "But I don't work for them. These casinos are big money. They're pretty much corporations now. I just work with talent. Occasionally, that means I get contracted by the casinos. Does that bother you?" He fixed her with his gaze, looking like he might march them straight out of this party if only she said the word.

Michonne considered this. Most casinos in Vegas were built with funds that were less than clean. "You don't work for the mob?" she asked outright.

Rick laughed, shaking his head. "No. I've never met any of those guys."

She accepted this for the time being, smiling against her glass of champagne. Rick did not miss the gesture. He reached for her again, laying his hand on her shoulder as they navigated through the crowd. Pairs of eyes turned towards them in waves, appraising her from head to toe. A few made a show of whispering openly, clearly wondering who she was.

"People are staring," Michonne said to her date, her hackles rising.

"Well," Rick looked at her. He removed the empty champagne flute from her hand and replaced it with a fresh one. "They're wondering who you are," he explained. "And how I landed a date like you."

She scoffed, laughing. "I'm sure you've brought beautiful dates before,' she said, sipping her drink. The bubbles burst against her tongue, making her feel lightheaded.

"One or two," he admitted. "They don't compare to you."

"Flatterer," she accused without venom.

"Is it flattery if it's the truth?" he asked. "You've gotta be used to people staring at you." His question was more curious than lecherous.

"Onstage," she said simply.

"I'm willing to bet they stare off stage too," Rick polished off his drink. "Does it make you uncomfortable?" he asked her.

"No," Michonne shook her head, her curls moving with her. "It makes me feel like I should be dancing though."

"Really?" a light went on behind Rick's eyes. He looked around the room. "Do you want to dance?"

Michonne laughed. "No one's dancing at the party," she pointed out. People were more concerned with smoking and drinking, guzzling down bottles by the dozen.

"Not yet," Rick winked at her. "Come on," he placed his hand on the small of her back, steering her towards the grand piano. "Let me introduce you to the host."

"Rick, wait-" she attempted to stop him, her nerves suddenly spiking. It was too late. In seconds, she was standing in front of the Rat Pack, staring into the famous blue eyes of Frank Sinatra.

"Ricky," he greeted her date warmly. "Glad you could make it. Sammy here was thinking you wouldn't show."

"Ah Sammy," Rick chuckled. "No confidence?"

Sammy didn't stop playing the piano as he spoke, grinning up at them. "Can't blame me. You're always working. I lost good money to Dean."

Dean Martin laughed. "100 bucks. I believed in you, Ricky boy." He patted Rick bracingly on the back. "We didn't expect you to show up in style like _this_ though."

Sinatra nodded, looking towards Michonne. "Where are your manners, Ricky? You aren't going to introduce us?"

"Sorry," Rick cleared his throat, gently nudging Michonne forward. "This is Michonne Marron," Rick smiled. "She's a dancer at the Moulin Rouge."

Recognition crossed every face in front of her in an instance. "You finally went down there to see the show then?" Dean Martin nodded. "Took him forever to get out of the office." He reached for Michonne's hand. "Pleasure to meet you, Michonne. I'm Dean."

"Frank," Sinatra took her hand in turn.

Sammy finally paused his song to reach for her. He dropped a kiss on her hand. "Sammy," he told her. "If you get sick of Ricky over here, come find me." He winked at Rick's scowl.

Michonne laughed. "It's nice to meet you," she wished she had something more to say, but was fully starstruck.

"I was hoping you boys could help me with something," Rick spoke up. "My beautiful date here wants a dance."

"Well then," Sinatra laughed. "You definitely need help."

"Why don't you have a seat, Ricky, and I'll help you out." Sammy stood up eagerly from the piano.

Rick laughed, shaking his head. "I was thinking more along the lines of you play her something she can dance to."

Sammy considered this. "Do I gotta watch you dance too?"

"That's for sure not going to impress her," Dean spoke up. "Trust me, miss. You don't want to see that."

Rick's scowl deepened as Michonne giggled. "Haha," he mocked. "Are you going to keep the lady waiting?"

"Of course not," Sammy smiled at her. He sat back at the piano with a flourish. "Dean, get the crowd's attention, will you? Frankie, set that drink down, we've got work. And Michonne?"

"Yes?" Michonne smiled at him.

"Tell your man to sit down before he falls over. You ready to dance?" Sammy's hands ran over the keys as his partners moved into position.

She glanced back at Rick who smiled encouragingly at her. "Break a leg," he told her, coaxing the flute of champagne out of her grip. Dean took her now-empty hand and guided her in front of them. Michonne was vaguely aware of the sounds of him talking, then Frank and Sammy, of the audience laughing, then her name being announced. She focused on smiling, on not shaking. It wasn't until the piano began to play that she felt at ease.

The music filled the room, creeping into her, spreading though her faster than the champagne had. Her body began to move on its own accord, her feet responding to the music. It was a song she knew, a popular, seductive tune. When the men began to sing, trading lines and riffing off of one another, Michonne slipped into the rhythm, losing herself.

_Whatever Lola wants, Lola gets…and little man, little Lola wants you…_

Space cleared as she moved, tossing her head and limbs. Her bare leg swept out, the slit riding hider, but Michonne could barely feel the fabric. She knew the party was watching, but it felt the way it always did on the stage. The crowd was responsive, laughing, cheering, whooping in delight.

_She always gets, what she aims for. And your heart and soul is what she came for…_

"That's you, Ricky boy!" Dean shouted, to the great delight of the crowd. Michonne spun, spotting her date. If he was embarrassed he didn't show it. His eyes were on her, his champagne glass hanging loosely at his side. She found herself smiling at him, spinning with more fervor.

_She's irresistible you fool, give in… give in…_

The song came to a roaring conclusion and the party burst into applause. Michonne struck a pose, breathless and exhilarated. Sinatra guided her to take a bow with the rest of them and she happily did so, hugging them all in turn.

"Check her out again at the Moulin Rouge, folks," Sammy announced, playing her off.

"Go easy on Ricky, huh?" Frank teased her, pointing at her date.

Rick took her hand, resuming his place at her side. "No need to go easy on me," he assured her. "I can handle it."

She smiled at him, adrenaline still pumping. Dancing had begun in earnest now, spurred on by the trio of singers in full entertainment mode. Michonne accepted the compliments of dozens of attendees as Rick walked her to the bar.

"How was I?" she asked him as he secured more champagne for her. He presented her with a plate of hor d'oeuvres. Michonne happily selected a few, filling her empty stomach.

He smiled, incredulous. "You've gotta know you're flawless," he responded.

"Maybe I just want to hear you say it," she teased, taking another bite. She blotted at her face with a cocktail napkin, wondering if her makeup had survived her performance.

"You're perfect," Rick rose to the occasion, turning his body towards her. "Talented," he slid her drink into her hand. "A goddess," his hand covered hers on top of the bar. "It's not everyone who can get onstage with the Rat Pack and be the center of attention."

She laughed. "I don't think it was technically a stage," she pointed out. "But thank you, Rick." She flipped her hand over beneath his. He didn't hesitate to lace their fingers together.

"I didn't do anything," he took a drink of his whisky. "That was all you." He set his glass down, licking his lips. "Where'd you learn to dance like that?" he asked, giving her his full attention.

Michonne continued eating, shrugging. "I've always danced. My mom was a dance instructor. I don't remember a time when I wasn't dancing."

"And you wanted to perform that long?" he questioned.

"I wanted to do ballet," Michonne answered, The sting of an old hurt rose up within her. "Turns out the world wasn't ready for that dream." She smiled wryly.

"The world's full of idiots," Rick said without hesitation. "You'd make a wonderful ballerina."

She laughed, "you've never seen me do ballet."

Rick stole a bite from her plate. He smirked at her. "One day, maybe," he said.

"If you're lucky?" she asked, teasing.

"Exactly," he stole another bite. "And if the world's lucky, maybe they'll get to see you too."

A warmness crept into her chest. Perhaps his statement was naive, but Rick looked as though he actually believed it.

"Well you're a talent agent," she hedged. "Maybe you can help the next generation of aspiring ballerinas along."

He cocked a brow, looking amused. "Who says I'm not?" he challenged. "Talented though you are, Michonne, I've got a few dancers who actually _want_ to work with me." He took another gulp of whisky. "Crazy world, isn't it?"

She laughed in earnest, amused and now with many more questions than she'd started off with. "You're too much," she chided.

He shrugged. "You wouldn't be the first to accuse me of that." He pulled her hand closer to him, running his thumb along hers. "But you should come by the studio sometime. See what I actually do."

Michonne smiled at him. "Maybe I will," she said.

From the center of the room, Dean Martin began to sing. Michonne watched as the couples around them began to move with more zeal, fueled by alcohol.

"Rick," Michonne gripped his hand. "Come dance with me," she requested.

He laughed. "They weren't joking about my dancing abilities," he warned her.

Michonne stood up. "I don't care," she told him. "I'll teach you."

He followed her, leaving his drink behind. "Alright," he took her hand again. "Lead the way."

Michonne steered him towards the edge of the dance floor, pulling him towards her. She draped one arm over his shoulder and held his hand in hers. His palm found the curve of her waist. He gripped lightly, stepping close to her. She could smell the scent of his cologne, see the light stubble already grazing his jaw. He really was handsome, she admitted internally. His face had a kind quality to it that she felt captivated by.

"Follow me," she said, pulling him backwards. Rick's feet moved with her, somewhat clumsy and unsure. "You're doing great," she assured him.

Rick laughed. "You're sweet, Michonne, but you're a bad liar," he fumbled in his steps.

Michonne stepped closer to him. "I'm not lying," she whispered into Rick's ear. His grip on her tightened until he was holding her flush against him. Michonne enjoyed the press of his body. He was solid beneath his suit, warm. She laid her head against his shoulder, less concerned with dancing than what it felt like to be held by him.

"Do you want another drink?" he asked, his lips grazing her ear. His heart was pounding beneath her chest, his pulse fluttering against her palm.

She shook her head. "No," she released his hand so that she could wind both arms around him.

He held her closer, wrapping his freehand around her waist. His cheek pressed against hers as they fell into a rhythm, stepping slowly to the music as Sinatra started singing a sultry ballad. The smell of Rick's cologne was making her dizzy, affecting her more than even the champagne had. His fingertips brushed the swell of her ass as they swayed, though whether he was doing it on purpose, she could not discern.

"I think you were lying about being a bad dancer," she teased, tilting her head up to whisper in his ear.

He chuckled, the sound sending reverberations through both of them. "You make it easy," he admitted, twirling them just to hear her giggle.

"Why's that?" she asked, baiting him.

He grinned slowly, turning his face until his lips brushed her face. "Probably because you're so damn beautiful," he imparted, his hands tightening around her waist. "Or because you feel so good in my arms."

Michonne pressed harder to him, the slick fabric of his suit stroking her bare skin. Throwing caution to the wind, she kissed him just beneath his ear before whispering, "Is that what you were thinking about when you were staring at me onstage that night?"

One hand crept downward slowly, cupping the whole of her ass for just a moment before sliding around to the slit in her dress. He rubbed his thumb against her, the calloused surface sending a shiver through her body that left her gasping.

"I was thinking about a lot that night," he admitted, his voice rough. "And for a few of those nights after I left."

"Just a few?" she mock pouted.

He looked her up and down, his eyes dilating. "All of them," he said. "Did you think about me?"

His eyes had haunted her since that night in the club, but it hadn't been until he asked her out that Michonne had entertained the idea of a dalliance. "Maybe so," she evaded. She stepped backwards, coercing him to spin her to the music. He did, but quickly drew her back, wrapping her in his embrace again.

She could feel the heat of him through the expensive fabric of both of their outfits. Forgetting herself, Michonne rocked against him, seeking him out. Rick hissed sharply through his teeth as she grazed him, his hand gripping possessively at her thigh.

"Want to see the rest of the house?" Rick asked, swallowing thickly. "Frank's got a great pool."

Michonne nodded. The room in here was too crowded, filled with too many eyes. Rick led her through the cluster of people, keeping her positioned in front of him, his arm around her waist. No one noticed as they slipped outside into the cool desert air, too distracted by free flowing booze and frivolity. Outside was quieter, simplistic and well-manicured. The pool was lit but empty, the garden largely unoccupied. He brought them to a corner against the house, staring at her as though he wanted to devour her whole.

Michonne shivered. Rick didn't hesitate to remove his jacket, draping it over her shoulders. She reached for his suspenders, straightening one absently. He caught her hand, holding it against him.

"I'm starting to think you might like me a little bit, Michonne," he teased.

"What gave it away?" she asked, stepping closer to him. From inside the house, Eartha's song began again, the lyrics finding their way to the couple now staring intently at each other.

_I want to wake up in the morning_

_With that dark brown taste_

_I want to see some dissipation in my face..._

"Just got a feeling," he told her, smiling slightly. He wrapped his arm around her waist again, pulling her closer still. Rick turned his head, brushing his lips against the back of her hand. Michonne inhaled sharply.

"Rick," she called his name. "Kiss me," she requested, tilting her face towards his.

He didn't hesitate, closing the scant distance between them. His lips were warm, soft. She gasped against them, tasting the remnants of champagne and whisky. He kissed passionately, his tongue wandering, his arms closing in around her, sheltering her from the outside air. She wound her fingers into the edges of his curly hair, tugging lightly. He let out a groan, breaking their connection to lay his forehead against hers.

"Michonne," he began, kissing her again for good measure. "Damn-"

His sentence was swallowed in the sudden onslaught of noise as the party spilled outside. Michonne turned in his arms, watching as dozens poured out the sliding glass doors, heading for the pool. A few women stripped down, jumping in the water to the delight of the spectators. She watched, one part amused, one part irritated.

"Grimes!" someone shouted, gesturing at the pair of them. "Bring that beau of yours and jump in!"

Rick shook his head, grinning even as he refused. Michonne watched the party dissolve into shenanigans, an idea forming in her mind.

"Do you want to get out of here, Rick?" she asked her date. "Go somewhere quiet?"

His eyebrows jumped, but he nodded. "Yeah," he kissed her hand again. "I know a place."

They made their escape, sliding into his car and hitting the road once more, back towards the city.


	3. Lady Luck Pt 3

**A/N: Surprise! We're doubling up on posts today! Check out msdoomandgloom's art on social media and be sure to leave her some kudos!**

**We hope you enjoyed our little Vegas tale! **

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The lights flickered on one at a time, humming in the otherwise quiet studio. Michonne's heels clicked across the cement floor as she walked into the open space.

"You work here?" she asked, turning towards Rick.

He shrugged, one corner of his mouth turned up in a smile. "Sometimes. Mostly I'm in my office," he pointed upwards to a room with large glass windows facing the stage.

She spun, taking it all in. Rick's suit jacket fluttered over her shoulders, the fabric brushing against the silk of her dress. "Is this why you were in the club that night?" she asked him.

Rick chuckled. "Now you want to talk business?" he asked, amused. "Left me twisting in the wind for three days-"

She laughed, somewhat embarrassed. "I didn't mean to be rude," she began.

Rick stepped towards her, cupping her face in one broad hand. "Michonne, you weren't rude. I'm just teasing you." His thumb traced the shape of her jaw, brushing against her bottom lip. She resisted the urge to nip at him, instead taking a shaky breath. Rick released her, gesturing to the set. "And you're right; this is what I wanted you to audition for."

"It's a show?" she turned the conversation back to business with difficulty, glancing at the large cameras pushed against the wall of the far end of the soundstage.

"Something they're going to play across the country in picture shows," Rick confirmed. "To get folks interested in Vegas."

"You think I'm enough to get people to come to Vegas?" she laughed lightly.

Rick stared at her again, "You were enough to get me out of my office," he admitted. Michonne's whole body ran warm. He continued, clearing his throat. "And what the Moulin Rouge is doing is important. Maybe the rest of the country will follow suit."

"You think so?" she asked, smiling at him.

Rick shrugged. "I'm going to do my damndest to convince them," he said. "Having a beautiful woman on my side wouldn't hurt," he chuckled, glancing at the cameras behind them.

"And I would have had to dance for just you?" Michonne dragged her hand along his arm. "Or would Mr. Walsh be there too?"

Rick let out a barking laugh. "Shane doesn't have a whole lotta couth, but he's a damn good director," he explained. "And I'd say you gave a great audition earlier, if you're interested in the job."

Michonne considered this, an idea forming. "Can you play music in here?" she asked him, moving closer to him.

Rick nodded. His arm wound around her waist again, easing her against him. Michonne succumbed to desire, tilting her face forward to kiss him once more. His lips sent a thrill through her, the heat of him making her feel dizzy, reckless.

"Can you play some Ella?" she asked against his mouth.

"Yeah," he blinked in surprise. "Right now?" he asked.

Michonne let his jacket slide from her shoulders. She handed it back to him before easing out of her heels and setting her purse on the floor. Her bare feet were cool against the cement below them. She nodded, stretching her arms over her head. Rick reluctantly released her, eyes hooded as he watched her back away towards the stage. Slowly, he walked backwards, heading for a record player. It took him a few moments of searching through a nearby shelf, but he located an album. He slid it onto the platter, balancing the needle atop it.

The music began, low and sultry. It flowed through the room like whisky poured into a glass, filling the studio with its deep melody. Michonne watched as Rick came forward again, leaning against a prone camera to watch her.

She began to move, slowly, methodically, swaying to Ella's smooth voice. This was different than her dancing onstage at the casino, different than her performance just an hour ago. Michonne raised herself onto her toes, dragging her feet in wide, sweeping motions, years of ballet resurfacing.

_You came, you saw, you conquered me…_

_When you did that to me, I knew somehow this had to be…_

Her skirt swirled around her, lifting and bunching as she turned, arms up. Her movements were controlled, smooth, so unlike the high-spirited gyrations she'd become accustomed to. Still, Rick watched her, eyes dark, mouth parted, like he'd never seen something so captivating in all his life.

_How strange, how sweet, to find you still..._

_These things are dear to me, they seem to bring you near to me…_

She lifted her leg, continuing her adagio, eyes closed, head tilted back. She leaned forward, pitching her leg higher before coming back down. On and on she twirled, transported.

_Two lovers on the street who walk like dreamers_

_Oh, how the ghost of you clings!_

_These foolish things remind me of you_

Michonne finished as the music faded out, her feet returning to the ground. She blinked her eyes open, surprised to find herself in the darkened studio instead of among the clouds. The song began to change, but she scarcely noticed. Her gaze was on Rick, on the slack-faced quality of his expression, on the look in his eyes.

"Damn," he exhaled. "I'm definitely the luckiest sonuvabitch in all of Vegas."

She smiled, flattered. "I like dancing for you," she said, sliding forward towards him.

"Good," he grinned outright. "I like watching you dance. You're welcome to dance around me anytime." He left his place at the camera to meet her, pulling her into his arms. She embraced him, dragging her hands down his shoulders and to his chest, feeling the heated skin beneath. Her breath began to hitch, her pulse racing as though she was still in motion.

"You take me out again, and I'll dance for you again," she whispered, her voice catching in her throat.

Rick's hands played down her body, smoothing over the silk until he came to the place where the slit of her dress began. His bare skin touched hers and she swore she was catching fire.

"I'll take you out every night," he promised her, his lips pressed to her temple. "Whenever you want me to. Wherever you want to go." His heart was beating frantically beneath her palm, his skin coloring as a flush crept down his neck. Michonne suddenly longed to see how far down it went.

He kissed her, cupping her face in a hand. His mouth was warm, frantic. She parted her own lips for him without pause, gasping and shaking at the feel of him. He sucked and nipped at her in turn, his other hand clenched around her thigh, moving dangerously close. Michonne leaned into his burning touch, her hands scrambling to find a hold on him. She anchored herself on his shoulders, holding him tightly, mewling against him.

"Michonne, are you drunk?" he asked her, pausing to take a gasping breath.

She shook her head. "Are you?" she asked.

"No," he groaned, pulling her back in for another searing liplock. The heat between them became an inferno. She suddenly wanted to be free of her gown, to feel him against her with no barrier between them.

She stumbled forward, tripping over her discarded shoes and purse, spilling the contents across the floor. Rick pulled back, chuckling, glancing down at her lipstick and compact. He released her to bend down. Michonne giggled, following him. She picked up the clutch, watching as he handed her belongings one by one. He lifted her compact, freezing when he uncovered the small foil package beneath.

Michonne's face began to burn at once, despite her desire. "The girls from the show…" she explained thickly. "They must have-"

Rick only laughed. "Good friends," he observed. He handed the condom to her. Michonne held it between her thumb and forefinger. "We don't have to use it tonight," he assured her. He winked, helping her to her feet.

Michonne clenched the square in her fist, coming to a decision. "Does your office have furniture?" she asked.

Rick's eyes darkened at once, his gaze falling to her enclosed hand. "A desk," he answered shortly, his voice clipped.

"That'll work," Michonne swallowed.

Rick took her hand at once, all but running them to the stairs leading up to his office. He fumbled with the keys for a moment before swinging the door open and tugging the chain on his lamp. A low amber light illuminated the furniture in question, a handsome oak desk and leather chair. Against the wall he had shelves of books and records, with filing cabinets lining the other side of the room. Framed photos hung around them. Michonne thought she spied a few famous faces frozen in time beneath the glass but didn't care to look too closely.

"You sure?" he asked her, his mouth pressed against her neck as he embraced her from behind. His hands tightened in a fist around the hem of her dress, dragging the fabric up and over her legs. He paused at her waist, breathing heavily against her, waiting for her response.

"Yes," she gasped. The heat of him sat thickly between them, driving her mad with desire. She could feel every inch of him through the scant fabric covering her backside. She arched backwards, encouraging his fevered exploration of her.

It was all the answer Rick needed. His hands moved upward, tracing the skin between the spaces in her fishnets, his fingers playing along the edge of the lace beneath. He skirted over her, applying the lightest of touches until she was panting in his arms, slumped against him.

"Tell me what you want," he requested, tossing her mussed hair to the side. He held it in one fist, his other hands dancing patterns over her center.

"I need you to touch me," she groaned, tilting her head back to receive his kisses.

"Where?" he asked.

Michonne wanted to scream, one part of her responding to his game with delight, the other wanting to tackle him where he stood. She reached backwards, rubbing her palm up his leg until she could feel him through the fabric of his suit pants. She took no care to tease him, instead choosing to show him exactly how she needed to be touched. He groaned, his hands tightening around her as he pressed even harder against her.

"Everywhere," she demanded. "Touch me everywhere, Rick."

He began to undress her, taking care to not ruin her gown. "Whatever you want," he promised, letting the dress fall to her feet.

Michonne stepped out of the skirt, unabashed in her lacy bottoms, growing more heated under his unwavering stare. He scooped her dress from the ground, tossing it over his desk chair. She took far less reservations with his clothing, tugging his shirt from his waistband and shoving his suspenders from his shoulders.

Rick assisted her, throwing his clothing to the floor. His hands were on her again, urging her backwards against his deck. He lifted her, setting her on the edge. "I hope you don't like these too much," he kissed her, muttering against her mouth. His hands tugged at her stockings. They gave way with a shocking rip, the sound of it thrilling her.

Michonne pressed her palm to his chest as his hands found her, teasing until she was a panting, writing mess. His fingers slipped beneath the scant lace still covering her. She moaned outright, spreading her knees to allow him a more thorough exploration.

"Damn, Michonne," he huffed. His breathing stuttered as she found him again, rubbing at him before shoving his briefs off and down his legs. She took a moment to look at him, the hard lines of his body, his narrow waist, and the evidence of his desire for her.

She let her hand fall open, pressing the little foil package into his. He tore it open with his teeth, urging her upwards across his desk. She let her back hit the cold wood, inhaling sharply at the sensation. Rick allowed little space between them, following her within seconds. She gripped him, rolling down the protection her fellow dancers had been thoughtful enough to send her out of the door with. Rick moaned, a deep throaty sound that left her gasping. He tugged the scrap of fabric still left on her off with fervor. She spread her legs, accommodating him as he settled between them.

She cried out loudly in pleasure when he entered her. Her hands gripped at his hair as he eased in, inch by torturous inch. She had a brief moment of clarity, a sudden realization that she was naked on a desk with a man she barely knew. He reached for her, drawing both of their hands above her head and began to move. Her misgivings ceased to matter to her at all.

The desk rocked beneath them, squeaking as Rick began to wind his hips with precise motions, searching for the spots that drove her wild. His body was hard against hers as he pinned her to his desk, unrelenting in his mission to take her completely apart. She rolled her hips up into his, uninhibited while she cried out her pleasure. He began to whisper in her ear, things that would make her blush at any other time, endearments that left her reeling.

"So good, baby," he panted, pressing wet, sucking kisses into her skin. "So tight," he grunted, moving faster. "Just perfect-" his hands slid beneath her, cupping her ass with greedy palms. She hiked her legs up further, pulling him deeper, opening herself to him as much as she could.

"Rick," she called his name, digging her nails into his back. She bit at his shoulder, drawing a moan from him. "Please…" she begged, unsure what she needed, but craving release.

He sat up, his hands tugging at her waist as he doubled his efforts. The desk shook dangerously, but neither of them took much notice as his hips pistoned forward, sending her soaring. Michonne felt pleasure race through her, white-hot and all-consuming. She babbled senselessly, a mixture of curse words and his name, writhing against the unforgiving surface below her. Rick called her name as he tightened, his hands nearly bruising her hips. He fell forward against her, panting, drenched, and temporarily sated. She wrapped him in her arms, holding him tightly. She could feel the echo of his touch everywhere, humming across her body.

"Damn," he chuckled against her. His lips trailed kisses over her slick skin.

She laughed, tugging at his damp and now-wild curls. "The luckiest sonuvabitch in Vegas," she teased. She felt pretty lucky herself at the moment, but wasn't sure she could articulate it. Instead, she busied herself with stroking his hair.

He nodded enthusiastically. "By far," he agreed. He rolled over, reversing their positions so that she could lie comfortably against him. "Gonna have to bring you somewhere with a bed next time," he remarked, wincing as the desk pressed into his back.

Michonne giggled, laying her head against his chest. "You could do that, tonight, you know," she suggested. The idea held more appeal than she expected.

He held her tighter. "I just need a second," he exhaled. "Gotta get the feeling in my legs back before I drive the car." He glanced around his office. "Not sure how I'm going to be able to work in here ever again."

She laughed in earnest, enjoying his rumbling chuckles beneath her. "Guess you'll have to take more breaks then," she suggested, pushing her mussed hair out of her face.

"Maybe so," he mused, straining up to kiss her. Michonne cradled his face in her hands, lavishing him with reckless abandon, enjoying the play of his lips against hers. His kisses lacked the frenzied energy they'd had earlier, but they were no less passionate. He took his time with her, his hands wandering her slick skin. Within moments, she could feel him beneath her again, pressing hard against her stomach.

"Too bad they only gave me one," she lamented, half-teasingly.

Rick chuckled. "In my pants pocket, I've got one," he admitted. "Shane-" he broke off chuckling. "It was just in case. I didn't expect this." He held her tighter. "But I'm damn happy about it," he said against her mouth, kissing her again.

Michonne laughed, sitting up. "Your pants pocket?" she asked.

His eyes darkened. "Yeah," he responded, voice strained.

With a grin, she pushed herself off of him briefly to retrieve it.

The sun was beginning to rise when they managed to exit the studio, walking hand in hand through the empty parking lot. Their clothing was worse for the wear perhaps, and she was down a pair of tights, but Michonne found she did not much mind. Rick helped her back into his car, kissing her again before he walked to the driver's side.

"You off today?" he asked.

"I am," she turned her gaze away from the rising desert sun to look at him. The world had a sherbert glow, the cotton candy orange and pink mirroring her emotional state.

"I don't suppose you'd want to go out and get some breakfast? I know a really good place. Maybe spend the day at the pool with me?" he asked. "It's not as nice as Frank's but-"

Michonne laid her hand atop his on the steering wheel. "I'll need my swimsuit first," she smiled. Her dress had seen more than enough action for the night.

"That we can do," he started the car, beaming before kissing her hand. The Cadillac came to life with a low rumble, the only sound in this otherwise quiet morning. Michonne left the radio off, happy to enjoy the stillness. Rick steered them down the empty roads. One by one, the neon lights of Vegas were powering down. Michonne watched them, smiling.

Rick rubbed patterns into her knee with his calloused palm, his hand finding her bare skin beneath the slit in her dress. The gesture was comforting, familiar already.

"Are you sure you want to spend a whole day together?" She teased, enjoying his gentle touches. "You're not sick of me yet?"

He smiled at her, taking his eyes off the road for a moment. "Don't think I'll ever be sick of you," he squeezed, chuckling when she let out a giggle. "Maybe you'll listen to my business proposition now," he joked.

Michonne laughed. "Might be a bit of a conflict of interest, don't you think?"

He shrugged, "Well, I was hoping to get your whole chorus line in the show. I'm only planning on dating you though, so…" he looked over at her questioningly.

Michonne leaned over the console between them, kissing his cheek. "That'll work," she agreed, settling into her seat again. She wound her fingers into his hair again, tugging and pulling as he drove.

Rick draped his arm over her shoulder, playing with the edges of her now mussed curls. "Yeah," he agreed. "I think it will."


	4. Epilogue: Luckiest Man Alive

**A/N: Turns out I wasn't quite done w this one. Here's an epilogue from Rick's POV. Please let me know what you think! **

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This is not how Rick had imagined his night would unfold.

He'd planned the details down to the most miniscule, searching for the jewels that would best compliment Michonne's complexion, finessing his way into dinner reservations at an establishment that frequented the Hollywood elite. He'd even reserved a room, or a suite rather, with a view he knew she would love, the desert out beyond, the neon lights of Vegas below. Two tickets to spirit them off to Paris were folded neatly into his wallet, his best suit was pressed, and the little velvet box was burning a hole into his jacket pocket. Everything was in place, ready for the moment of truth.

And Rick was sitting in a jail cell in a Vegas police department, wondering how the hell it had all escalated so quickly.

His knuckles smarted and were bruising already, and there was a cut beneath his eye going black and blue. Rick's mind was not on these inconveniences, but on Michonne instead. Her show would be ending soon, and she would be waiting for him in their usual spot. He wondered whether she would worry, how long she might stand in the dark, looking for his blue Cadillac to come around the corner.

"Mr. Grimes," an officer peered in at him through the bars. They'd had the good sense to move the other man to the drunk tank, far out of Rick's line of sight. He was liable to be charged with something much worse than disorderly conduct if he had to listen to another word that spewed out of his mouth. Perhaps his cracked front teeth would remind the stranger that where Michonne was concerned, he ought to keep his fat mouth shut.

Michonne was used to strangers staring at her, but for Rick, it was an adjustment. She was a beautiful woman, made all the more stunning in her costumes and silks. Admiration he could understand; he might have even been able to tolerate a lecherous leer or two. But he found that eyes were often on the pair of them, some curious, some appraising, some full of a terrible judgment that sent rage boiling through his veins. He'd learned to temper it, to angle himself between those hateful eyes and his love, to turn his back before the situation could get too out of control. He knew it bothered Michonne though she did not show it. She kept her head high, her chin up, but her hand would squeeze at his like he was a lifeline, a silent acknowledgment that this world of theirs had far to go where fair treatment was concerned.

There were theaters that he no longer frequented, friendships that he'd left fall to the wayside, business partnerships that he dissolved at once - all based on a flippant comment that some might have called a joke. He rarely disclosed these instances to Michonne, though he suspected she knew despite his discretion. This world might have been new to Rick, but it was the whole of her life, a daily struggle that she'd learned to weather long ago.

So the eyes followed them, on red carpets, in bars, in picture shows, at the pool, in casinos, hotels, and the like. Rick did his best to ignore it. There were some instances, however, that he could not disregard.

"Yes?" his voice was terse, but he could not help it, not even to garner softer treatment from the officers here.

"You know who you want to call?" The officer was short on patience. Rick couldn't say he entirely blamed him. The drunk tank was swarming already, and it wasn't even 1 in the morning yet.

"Yeah," Rick nodded, sucking at his teeth. "I know who I want to call."

"Jail?" the phone was rough against Rick's ear as he listened to his friend's voice come down the line. "Holy shit, Grimes, did we switch places? Is this some kind of a bad joke?"

"I wish it was," Rick held in his sigh. Shane Walsh's surprise was to be expected.

"What the hell are you in jail for?" his director asked him, half-amused, half-aghast.

"You saw the _Enquirer_?" Rick asked in return.

The humor slipped from Shane's voice all at once. "Shit...yeah. I was hoping you wouldn't see it tonight. Did your girl-"

"I don't know," the thought haunted Rick enough as it was. "Some pencil-necked idiot was waving it in my face at the bar tonight, asking if it was true." Rick had been minding his own business when the weasley asshole had started up. He'd used Rick's least favorite word on Earth in reference to Michonne. Next thing he knew, Rick was holding the man down on the bar top by the collar, and punching him in the mouth with his freehand.

"Of course it ain't," Shane fired up at once.

"I told him so," Rick's fist flexed involuntarily, sending a shock of pain racing up his arm.

"What he'd say?" Shane asked, voice rough.

"A bunch of shit he won't be saying again," Rick glanced down the narrow concrete hallway, squinting towards the drunk tank. He couldn't see the man anymore, but he supposed they might have taken him to a doctor by now.

"You knock his face in?" Shane sounded almost proud.

"Not his whole face," it wasn't from lack of trying. "He's gonna need a good dentist though."

"Attaboy," Shane applauded him. "You need me to come bail you out?"

"I do," Rick nodded. Shane owned him a couple anyway. "But I need you to go to the club first, pick up Michonne."

"Does she know?" Shane asked.

"She will soon," Rick sighed.

"Wasn't tonight your big night?" Shane asked suddenly, as though he'd only just remembered.

"Was supposed to be," Rick swallowed, examining his reflection in the chrome box of the payphone. If the tabloid rags thought he was a mobster before, that shiner forming under his eye wasn't going to help his cause.

"Shit Rick," Shane snorted. "You've got some damn bad timing."

"You'll pick her up?" Rick pressed.

"Yeah," Shane agreed. "Then we'll come spring ya."

He hung up without another word. Rick set the phone back in its cradle. The officer was waiting for him at the end of the hall. Rick traipsed back towards him as casually as he could manage.

"I saw your new show," the officer told him conversationally.

Rick glanced at him. "That so?" he asked.

The officer nodded. "Me and the wife. It was pretty good. It ain't the Rat Pack, but that girl of yours, she can dance."

Rick nodded. "She can." It was an understatement, but frankly, he was tired of correcting people tonight.

"Isn't it weird though?" The officer pressed. "You being you and her being-"

Rick froze, eyes narrowing. The cop wisely stopped mid-sentence.

"Only thing weird about it as how folks like you treat us," Rick imparted. He sped up his gait, eager to be back in the cell and away from this man. He'd go to prison for sure if he stayed much longer.

"I ain't got nothing against it," the officer held up a palm in surrender. "I gotta say, I get it. She's a mighty fine lady. But your children...what are they going to be like?"

Rick had given much consideration to this thought. When it passed his mind, he imagined a daughter with Michonne's hair and talents, sons with personalities like his and skin like their mother's. He kept silent on this, resolving to get himself in no more trouble today.

"I'm just saying," the officer finished, shutting the cell door again. "It's something to think about."

The nightly rush hit. Miscreants poured in by the dozen, saving Rick from the indignity of any further inquiries from the supposedly well-meaning police officer. The drunk tank filled up, so they started loading them in with Rick. Rick kept to the corners and away from the staggering and vomiting rabble, counting down the seconds before Shane got there.

It was Michonne he saw first, still in her stage makeup, clutching her coat over her. She rushed forward towards him on sky high heels, but was stopped by another officer. Rick stood at once and pressed against the bars, watching her.

"She's with me," Shane swept in, voice loud and barking. He stepped to Michonne's side, putting himself between her and the cops. "We're here to pick up that one," he pointed at Rick.

"Oh," the officer was caught off guard. "He's gonna need bail," the officer explained.

"Do I look like I don't got it?" Shane challenged.

Michonne's eyes remained on Rick through the process, clouded with something he couldn't quite put his finger on. He waited anxiously until the cell doors were open. She was in his arms within seconds. Again, the eyes were on them, but Rick couldn't have cared any less.

"Are you ok?" he asked her, smoothing her hair between his hands.

She laughed, bewildered. "Me?" she questioned. Her fingers traced his bruising eye. "Rick, what happened?"

"I'll explain," he promised, kissing her forehead.

"Alright," the officer announced loudly. "So we got one suit jacket, one watch, a wallet, cufflinks and-" he set the belongings on the counter one by one. "One ring, still in its box."

Michonne's eyes widened as she looked at it, the question written all over her face. Rick hastily gathered his things.

"Are we good?" he asked the officer, irritated.

"Guy says he won't press charges. Wants to avoid any...entanglements." The officer paused on that word. Rick resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "So we're good. Don't go knocking anymore teeth into skulls."

"Got it," Rick couldn't promise he wouldn't, but he was eager to get out of here. "My car?"

"Impound," the officer pointed. "You gotta wait until morning for that. No one's there now."

They left, Michonne clinging to Rick's hand, the air heavy between them. The walk from the front door of the precinct to Shane's black Cadillac seemed to last hours. Michonne was uncharacteristically quiet, her fingers laced tightly around his. Rick slid into the backseat alongside her, wrapping his arm around her waist. She leaned into him, still clinging to his hand. The radio droned on in the background, a mixture of big band hits and recaps of the baseball game. Rick barely heard it. There was a ringing in his ears, a heady mix of emotion that left him exhausted.

"Well," Shane pulled up to Rick's place, throwing his car into park. "Call me if you need a ride in the morning."

"I'll get a cab," Rick told him. He shook his friend's hand. "I owe you."

Shane just shrugged. "Gotta figure we're almost even now." He looked in the backseat where Michonne was at Rick's side. "Go easy on him, alright?" he suggested.

Michonne nodded. Her lips were pursed, that question still swirling behind her dark eyes.

"I'll see you soon," Rick told Shane, helping her out of the car.

His house was blessedly quiet as they entered. The air conditioner kicked on when he flipped the switch, cooling the stale air. He hadn't planned on returning here for two weeks at least. He was glad for the solitude now though. Michonne left her heels in the foyer and her purse on the couch before turning to him.

"Guess I owe you an explanation," Rick draped his jacket over the counter, suddenly nervous. His suit was wrinkled, his tie askew. He tugged it off, waiting for his girlfriend to speak.

"You hit someone," she said calmly. She was still in costume, the sequins of her short and tight little dress catching under the light from the ceiling. He wondered what she had danced tonight, whether the crowd had liked it.

"I did," Rick said. His knuckles were swelling already. Michonne looked at them before sweeping off to his kitchen, Rick hot on her heels. She retrieved a frozen bag of peas from the freezer before wrapping it in a dish towel. She pressed it to his hand. The cold was instantly soothing.

"He was talking about me? About us?" she asked. There was something carefully controlled in her tone that Rick recognized instantly.

"He won't be anymore," Rick promised her. He pushed a stray loc back from her face, needing to see her expression.

Michonne sighed. Her eyes filled with tears suddenly. Rick closed the distance between them at once, holding her close.

"Michonne," he began, seeking to soothe her.

"They're always going to say those things, Rick," she cried into his dress shirt, makeup running. "Always."

He knew the truth of her words, even if he didn't have the wherewithal to articulate how sad that it made him. "Good thing I hit hard," he remarked, rubbing his uninjured hand down her back.

She began to laugh, shaking her head through her tears. "Was it the _Enquirer_?" she asked. "One of the girls showed me. She says we can probably sue."

"I called my lawyer already," he told her. Maybe he wasn't a mobster, but he did have connections, and he intended to use them. He kissed Michonne's forehead, allowing his lips to linger. "I'm sorry, baby," he whispered. He wished she knew just how sorry he was.

She nodded again. "Me too," she sighed. She pulled back an inch. Rick used the dishtowel to wipe her face. He tossed it in the sink once he'd cleared the makeup and tears away.

"I had a suite booked tonight," he said, holding her again. "We could catch a cab, if you wanted to." Perhaps he could salvage what was left of the night, get them back on the right track.

She wrapped her arms around his waist, looking up at him, her eyes tinged pink from her tears. "What's the occasion for that?" she asked, swallowing thickly.

He had planned to surprise her over champagne and steak, to make love to her afterwards in a California King bed. Still, he found himself dropping to his right knee, fishing the little box from his pocket. The kitchen tile was unforgiving beneath his leg, but he balanced anyway, looking up at Michonne. Her breath hitched at once. Her hand, still in his, began to tremble.

"Michonne," he began. "It's been a really good year." The best of his life, despite the whispers and stares. "I've never been so happy."

"Me neither," her voice was quiet, high, as though she barely trusted her ability to speak.

"I was thinking," he cleared his throat, trying to remember what he'd planned to say and coming up completely blank. "We love each other. And it doesn't matter if they stare, or what they say. I want to spend my life with you. And if you do too…"

"I do," she assured him, shaking like a leaf now.

A smile split his face. "Then we should get married," he held up the ring. The platinum band caught the kitchen light, the rubies glinting.

"I think you're right," her voice was strained, tears beginning again.

Rick slipped the ring up her left-hand ring finger. It looked just as beautiful as he'd imagined against her skin. He stood up, kissing her soundly, ignoring the sting of his bruised face as their lips met. "I had a whole plan tonight," he whispered to her, regretful.

She crushed her mouth to his, her lips parted, her hands scrambling to grab a hold of his shoulders. She always kissed like this, with reckless abandon, like it might be the last time. Rick held her, hefting her against him, his hands running familiar trails down her body.

"I don't want to share you tonight," she whispered against his mouth.

Rick understood the sentiment. He picked her up, carrying her to his bedroom. The first time they'd been together, it had been a frantic tumble on his desk in his office. They'd been together hundreds of times since, in a hundred locations. It seemed right tonight that they be in the bed that would soon belong to the pair of them.

It was hard to undress them both with a bruised hand but Michonne assisted, tossing his clothes around like confetti. He stroked his palms up her bare legs, touching her the way she liked until her head flung backwards into the pillows. He wanted to take his time with her, but the heat of her, her plaintive moans, the way she wrapped her legs around him and squeezed, made him sure she wouldn't mind if they got right to the main act.

They had the rest of their lives to go slow.

She fit him like a glove to a hand, making his knees weak as she always did. He really was the luckiest sonofabitch on Earth. Of all the men that could have been at her beck and call, she'd chosen him.

"God, Michonne," he braced himself on his forearms, bending to kiss her as they moved together. He licked and sucked at her neck, in the space he knew made her squirm. She held on, urging him forward, one hand sprawled across his back, the other grasping at his waist and ass.

"Rick," he liked his name best this way, half-sighed, half-moaned while he was inside of her. He kissed her again, unable and unwilling to break their connection. "Harder, baby," she begged. "Please…" her words broke off when he complied, leaning up to go deeper. He hooked her legs over his shoulders, leaning forward until she was nearly split in half.

Michonne had never been shy when it came to sex. Tonight was no different. Her pleasured cries were loud enough to echo, uninhibited. He knew he was making plenty of noise of his own.

"You're so beautiful, baby," his voice was a clipped growl in her ear. She tightened around him as he spoke. "So damn perfect." There were a million things he loved about Michonne, the sound of her voice, the way she danced, her laugh, her walk, the feel of her skin. He loved the way she never hesitated to chastise him when he was being stubborn, that she would sit up with him watching tape of dancers for hours on end. He loved that she would show up at the studio, dinner in hand, to help him edit, loved that she practiced her choreography in front of him before each big performance. He loved that her friends all knew his name, loved that her parents wanted him over for Christmas, loved that when it was just the two of them, nothing else seemed to matter in this whole wide world.

Her hands found purchase around his biceps, her new ring pressing into his skin until it was sure to leave a mark. Her eyes were on his, no longer tear-drenched, but now glowing with something that made him sure that they were going to be alright, that they were sure to make it. She tangled her hand into his hair, pulling his face down to kiss him again.

"I love you," she promised against his mouth. "So much baby," she tightened around him. "So damn much."

He fell over the edge before she did, but reached for her again, rubbing until she screamed outright. Their skin was slick against one another, a contrast of color that they had both stopped noticing long ago. He kissed her, leisurely this time, enjoying the sensation as she eagerly reciprocated.

Michonne reached for her hand, inspecting the knuckles under the light of the lamp. She kissed each one, then his bruised eye in turn. "This isn't going to be easy, you know," she whispered, her eyes on his.

"I know," he'd known before he ever asked her to dinner, before he'd picked her up at the Moulin Rouge, before they'd ever stepped foot into that first party together. From the moment he had seen that bright smile of hers up on stage, he had been sure she was worth any inconvenience the world could conceive to throw at them. "You know what we have is worth it, right?" he asked her in turn.

She smiled brightly, stroking her hand down to his chin. "I know," she confirmed, kissing him gently.

"I had another surprise too," he told her, nuzzling closer to her. "One that damn cop didn't manage to ruin," he swallowed the anger, focusing instead on Michonne.

She laughed lightly, a musical sound, "I was still surprised," she promised him.

"That I was in jail, or that I was planning to propose?" he asked, half-joking.

She laughed all the more. "I thought you might be thinking about it," she admitted. "But-"

He cut her off, kissing her soundly until she melted against him. "No buts," he told her. Grinning, he reached beneath her to smack her on the ass. "This one's the only one that matters."

She threw her head back, giggling. "Rick," she admonished. "That was awful."

He only smiled. "Stay here," he begged, leaning up.

"I'm not going anywhere," she assured him. She watched curiously from the tangle of sheets as he found his suit pants and retrieved his wallet. The tickets were blessedly no worse for the wear. He held them up for her inspection. "Paris is supposed to be really nice at Christmas," he said.

Her eyes widened. "Rick, are you serious?"

He nodded, handing them to her. "Sammy suggested it. Said there's lots of nice things about Paris. I thought maybe we'd go have a look."

"There's no return flight," she said, surprised.

Rick shrugged. "We can always book it from there," he tried to keep his tone light. "There's no need to rush it. You earned a vacation." She hadn't had a real night off in months.

She stared up at him, her face lit up with excitement. "What if we end up loving it?"

"They've got dancers there, same as here," he said. "Got a friend out that's been begging me to help him with a show. They'll need a choreographer too," he told her. "If we like it."

She considered this, carefully controlled wonder sparkling behind her eyes. "If we like it," she repeated. She handed the tickets back to him. Rick reached over to stow them in his wallet again. From behind, Michonne wrapped her arms around him, her palms stroking down his waist, skimming over him until his breath caught.

"Already?" he chuckled knowingly. He'd heard other couples complain about a lack of enthusiasm in bed, but so far, he and Michonne hadn't struggled on that front.

"Shane said you knocked that guy's teeth in," her voice was husky, her hands wandering.

Rick turned, surprised by her reaction. "Broke a few of them," he admitted.

Michonne crawled into his lap, straddling him. "I hope you didn't stain your suit," she remarked, settling in his lap.

"No," Rick confirmed, holding her tightly. "But his is ruined."

She grinned outright. "You probably shouldn't make a habit of it," she cautioned.

"No?" Rick lifted her then tugged her down again. She cried out as he filled her. "If they keep their mouths shut, I'll stop breaking teeth."

She braced herself on his shoulders, lips parted, eyes heavily lidded. Rick watched, entranced as she bounced.

"Besides," he continued, laving at one nipple, then the other. "Kinda seems like you like it."

She didn't bother to protest, only moving more fervently. Rick cupped her cheeks in his hands, urging her down faster.

By the time they finished, Rick was glad that they'd skipped the hotel, if only to spare the salacious tabloid headlines about how loud they could be in the bedroom. He watched Michonne as she slept, her face buried in the crook of his arm, completely at rest. From the corner, the record player crooned softly, a familiar song.

_A cigarette that bears a lipsticks traces_

_An airline ticket to romantic places_

_And still my heart has wings_

_These foolish things remind me of you_

A week later, the skin around his eye was more yellow than purple, prompting funny stares as he moved through the airport with Michonne on his arm. Rick barely noticed, his attention on his fiancée, and not the nosy rabble around them.

It wasn't long before they stared in Paris too, but only because they recognized Michonne from the posters around town. A month turned into two, then three, until Rick stopped counting. Vegas would be there, along with his office, his connections, his house. He knew he'd return, and Michonne with him, but he was in no hurry.

Not every guy was lucky enough to travel the world with the love of their life. If they stared, let them stare.

As long as they kept their mouths shut, he wouldn't have to break anymore teeth.


	5. The Midnight Ball- A Victorian AU

**A/N: This Victorian AU was intended to be a birthday present for the incredibly talented, ridiculously supportive, and immeasurably lovely msdoomandgloom. She has asked me to post it, so here it is!**

**Please enjoy this one shot to celebrate an awesome artist, and an even more amazing human being. Happy (Belated) Birthday, msdoomandgloom!**

* * *

It was in the third stanza of a Viennese Waltz that the ball at Walsh Manor took a decidedly more sinister tone.

Richard Grimes' betrothed had been taking a turn with his oldest friend on the ballroom dance floor. They both loved this sort of spectacle nearly as much as Richard despised it. Miss Lori and Mr. Walsh commanded the attention of the whole of the attendees, every eye on the waifish, lovely brunette woman spinning with the ebon haired owner of the manor. Mr. Shane and Miss Lori made quite the pair, and there were more than a few whispers that perhaps they _should_ have been a pair.

If this poorly concealed gossip bothered Miss Lori's betrothed, he did not show it. Richard was more than content to place his fiancée in the care of his dearest friend. The seemingly selfless act had in fact served his purposes quite perfectly.

Richard had spotted Miss Michonne among the attendees tonight. Try as he might to resolutely ignore her presence, he was forced to give up the pretense when her dark eyes met his from across the hall. The thick, twisted locs of her hair- which so frequently vexxed their neighbors- were affixed in a low knot at her neck, leaving the whole of her face exposed. Miss Michonne did not trouble herself with rouge and powders, nor did she need to. There was no moment of her life when she did not eclipse those around her without an ounce of effort on her part.

He had done his best not to gawk at her, but the whole of his senses were attuned to her every movement. Every swirl of her skirts, every tilt of her head, every small, indulgent smile she bestowed on fools who made no effort to understand her- every breath reached him. Miss Lori had been still at his elbow when he caught Miss Michonne's eye this night. His resolve had splintered away in a blink. In moments, Miss Lori and Mr. Walsh had been partnered for a dance, and Richard was in motion.

No one had noticed his show of impropriety. After all, the fair Miss Lori had arrived on Mr. Grimes' arm, in the place that had been prepared for her since their childhood. There was no need to consider anything further. And Mr. Grimes? Well he was handsome enough, but truly a bit...dull. His manners set him among the finest gentlemen in King's Grove, but everyone knew that Mr. Shane Walsh was the far more spirited of the two. Therefore, when Mr. Grimes handed his beau to Mr. Walsh with a bow and a flourish, not a soul noticed anything amiss.

And they certainly did not notice the young, dark-skinned woman eagerly watching from the corner.

This insistence on pretending Miss Michonne was invisible stuck like an ever-present thorn in Richard's side. He was forced to concede that it was useful this evening, though if the world was a fairer place, there would be no need for this charade at all.

Her back was to him as he entered the study, bolting the door behind him. The pianoforte's spirited melody could still be heard even through the heavy wood. Richard paid it no mind at all.

"Miss Michonne," he greeted, voice low, stomach churning with a wave of nerves. He wondered fleetingly whether this was to be his lot in life, or if he would ever become accustomed to her presence.

She spun, scarlet skirts swirling around her. The shade complimented the deep color of her skin, tempting him as it so often did.

"Rick," she smiled. The expression struck joy inside of him.

"I did not realize that you would be in attendance tonight," he ventured.

"I was certain that you would attempt to dissuade me from coming," she answered easily.

An intelligent man certainly would have done so. A gentleman would never have allowed a woman to enter such a hostile environment as this. It seemed that where Miss Michonne was concerned, he was neither.

"I could not have even if I desired to do so," he admitted, walking closer to her still. "You have quite bewitched me."

She smiled again at this, her lips arched in a lovely cupid's bow. "So you think that witchcraft is the culprit here?" she baited.

"No," Rick crossed the scant space between them, pausing in front of her. She tilted her chin towards him, her eyes fixed upon his face. "It is not witchcraft," he whispered.

"Should you not be with your fiancee?" she asked, taking a half step backwards from him.

A pang of guilt overcame him, not for the woman outside, but for the woman in front of him. "I would leave her to dance without me for all eternity, if you would only say the word."

"And what word, pray tell, is that?" Michonne whispered.

He reached for her, disregarding propriety in favor of lifting her hand. Her smooth fingers were warm in his grasp, heating considerably more so when he pressed his lips gently to the palm. "Say you love me," he begged.

"You know I do," she had gone short of breath, her bosom heaving beneath her corset. She had first whispered this to him on a narrow alley behind the market square, kissing him and hurrying away. Rick had stood there for the better part of a quarter of an hour, scarcely able to believe his luck.

"Abscond with me," he nearly went to his knees in front of her. A tortured expression creased her features.

"Our love," she shook her head, closing her fingers around his hand. "It is not meant to be, Rick." It was an old argument, oft repeated in a hurried rush of breath whenever he bestowed a gift on her, or pulled her aside for conversation.

He held tightly, trembling. "Yet you came here tonight," he said, voice thick. The tendrils of hope began to seize him, a wonderful, terrible, terrifying sensation.

"I did," she agreed. She took the slightest of steps toward him, almost as though the action was involuntary on her part.

From outside of the study, the music changed. A waltz began, slow and romantic, a song for the lovers in attendance. Michonne's eyes moved towards the door leading to the ballroom, something resolute upon her face.

"You should be dancing with your love," she told him.

"I should be," he agreed at once. He bowed before her, lifting her hand, praying that she would not reject him. The tails of his waistcoat fluttered behind him. "Miss Michonne," he began, looking up towards her. "Would you honor me with a dance?"

She inhaled sharply, surprised. Even so, her chin moved just slightly, nodding. It was enough. Rick stepped forward, pulling her into his arms. He had never much cared for dancing, finding the endless twirling tiring. The sport took on a new meaning with Michonne in his embrace. The feel of her was enough to dizzy him, as was her face up close. Her features, too often unnoticed by the citizens of their modest village, oft haunted him. Never in all of his life had he been so stricken.

She moved fluidly with him, her skirts rustling, her breaths naught more than gentle gasps that tempted him fiercely. He found himself speaking, disclosing the deepest longings of his heart, endearments for her ears only.

"From the first moment I laid eyes upon you, I was enchanted," he confessed. "On all of God's Earth, there is no woman who could compare to you."

"Rick," his name slipped from her lips in a plea, though for what he could not discern.

"There is no other I would love," he promised. "No other I would spend my life with."

She remained silent. However, her hand clutched at him, and her breathing grew increasingly labored. Rick led their dance, drawing on lessons meant to prepare him for his nuptials.

"Richard," she used his given name, the title startling him. "You know not what you are asking."

"I am sound of mind," he assured her. "And sound of heart." He took her hand in his own, moving it to his breast. His heart beat a steady rhythm beneath. "I know exactly what I would have from you."

"And what is that?" she faltered in her steps, looking up at him.

"Your hand in marriage," Rick stopped altogether though the music continued. He went to one knee, still holding her slender fingers. "If you would have me."

She began to cry, her eyes welling. "You would leave this all?" she sniffled, tears falling thick, clotting in her long lashes. The splendor around them- gold inlaid fixtures, marble columns, leather-bound books- could not compare to the treasure he had found in her company.

"For you?" Rick reached in his pocket. The ring that adorned Lori's finger featured a cluster of diamonds in the shape of a daisy. A servant had picked it from the window at Tiffany and Co. Rick had scarcely bothered to look at it. He knew intimately the ruby and gold band he held now. His mother had worn it for every day of her long marriage to his father. "I would leave it all tonight, if only you would have me," he professed.

Shaking, Michonne reached for him, looking not at the ring, but only on his face. "Rick," she said, tear tracks cutting over her dark cheeks. "You are all that I love in this world. If you say you will have me-"

"There is no one else I would have," he pressed the ring against her left hand, sliding the band upwards.

She gripped his shoulders, smiling at last. "Then I am yours," she told him. "And you are mine."

He stood at once, embracing her. She wrapped her arms around his neck. "Forever, my love," he whispered. He cupped her chin, drawing her face towards his. She kissed him back fervently, her lips plush against his own. She tasted faintly of champagne, the flavor intoxicating. Rick's arms tightened around her as though he might never let go.

Outside, the music shifted again, though neither of the newly betrothed heard it.

"We will leave tonight," he told her, drawing breath at last. She leaned her forehead against his.

"They will notice your absence," she cautioned.

"I will make some excuse," he said. He had become skilled in excuses. "I will come for you in an hour's time. Meet me near the stables."

"What shall I bring?" she asked, an exuberant look upon her face.

"Only yourself," he kissed her again. "There is nothing you need that I will not give you."

She shook her head, but smiled. "It is only you that I am after," she told him, stroking his hair before running her hand down his chin.

"How fortunate for you then, beloved," Rick held her closer still. "For I feel quite the same." He longed to kiss her, to spend the evening in her arms. There would be time for that soon, for a lifetime of such pleasures. "Will you meet me?" he asked.

"I will slip out of the back door," she kissed his forehead, stepping backwards from him. Rick drew her in once more for a last embrace.

"One hour then," he swore, releasing her. She beamed at him, her expression so full of love that Rick was tempted to simply leave now, to disappear into the night with Miss Michonne and to never look back. He would take her far from here, far from judgmental eyes. Perhaps they could abscond across the ocean, to North America, to Australia, to wherever she would like to go. The suggestion was on his lips when a sound stopped him cold.

From outside the study, someone let out a blood curdling scream.

Instinctively, Rick moved to cover his love, placing himself between her and any threat that might come. She gripped his shoulder, eyes wide.

"Rick…" she began uncertainly.

Another scream sounded. The music stopped in a stutter, replaced instead with a cacophony of chaos. His heart began to beat in a frantic tattoo against his chest.

"Perhaps we leave together," he attempted to stay calm, turning to Michonne. They could slip out of the servant's entrance, with no one the wiser. He could have her safely off before the threat ever reached the locked study.

"Shall we check on them?" Michonne asked, her kind nature rearing its head. "Perhaps they are under attack-"

The next sound made Rick certain that this was the case. Someone had fired a gun outside. Rick could hear the shouts of his friend, mobilizing the men outside. Someone tried the handle of the study door. Michonne jumped.

"Michonne," Rick turned to her, grasping her hand. "We must leave now." Whatever was outside that room filled him with a dread he could not explain. Something was scraping along the walls now, frantic and panicked. The door rattled ominously, but the lock held.

"Should we not help them?" Michonne moved forward. Rick stepped between her and the ballroom again.

"I will not risk you," Rick told her. That door would remain shut. He began to move, a plan forming in his mind. Michonne followed him.

"Surely, you must have some affection for Miss Lori, or Mr. Walsh-" she argued.

In truth, he was certain that they had enough affection for one another to suit them both just fine. He wished them well. Still, he was not heartless.

"We will go outside," he suggested. "Perhaps from there we can discern the next course of action."

Michonne nodded, amenable. "It may be only a dispute," she ventured. Even so, her eyes darted towards a row of antique weapons above the hearth.

Rick held her hand, keeping her close as he walked over. There was enough ammo for one pistol in a nearby case. "Can you shoot?" he questioned the woman who would soon be his wife.

She shook her head. "I have some skill with a sword," she said.

This information was of much interest, though Rick felt that now might not have been the best time to broach the subject. There would be time once they were free in which to learn all of the other's secrets.

"Which one?" he asked her, lifting the case lid. Michonne gestured to the simplest one, a silver sabre. Rick handed it to her at once.

"Stay close to me," he requested. The screams in the ballroom grew in timbre and the door to the study began to move, the wood bowing behind some unknown threat. Rick threw open the door to the servants corridors, grabbing a second sword as he hurried Michonne inside. He could hear the heavy oak doors of the study burst open as he shut the entrance to the servant's corridor between them. He barred it with his borrowed sabre, plunging them into darkness. Michonne gave a little gasp, but moved forward still, her hand wrapped firmly around Rick's.

Together, they crept through the pitch black corridor. Through the stone walls, the sounds from the party continued to reach them. All trace of frivolity was gone. In lieu was some sort of snarl, almost like that of a beast. It crested and ebbed, growing as though the threat, whatever it was, was in motion.

"That is no animal I have ever heard before," Michonne whispered to him.

"Nor I," he confirmed, holding her hand tighter. She stepped closer to him, the fine fabric of her skirts brushing his tailcoats. When the gunshots began again, along with the shouts, Rick wrapped his arm around her waist. "Michonne," he kept his voice low. The exit was surely nearby, and they would need a plan. "I think once we are through the door, we must run."

He could hear her nod, her locs shaking loose from their coif. "Where should we go?"

"The stables," his horse was there. The trusty animal would be able to bare them away.

"And if it is not safe?" she asked.

He reached for her hand, tightening her grip around her sword. "Then we fight our way free."

"All right," she agreed, drawing in a breath.

Rick paused, laying his ear to the door, listening carefully. Michonne laid her hand on his back, waiting with baited breath. He could hear nothing. Rick reached for the door handle, preparing himself. "Michonne," a thought crossed his mind, dark but pressing. "Should the threat overpower me-"

"Rick," her voice was sharp. "Do not speak that way."

He turned, finding her lips in the dark. He took a moment, kissing her again, slowly, sweetly, committing it all to memory. "You must survive," he imparted, wishing he could see her, wishing that their first night together could be the dream she deserved. They should have had a party, announced their engagement. She should be surrounded by her most cherished, showered in gifts, in fabrics, in white lace. They should be searching for a home together, or remodeling his family estate to suit them, preparing for a family all their own, for an eternity in one another's arms.

Instead, Rick reached for the door handle, his other hand tightening around his pistol. He wished for a moment that he had more substantial of a weapon, one with more shots.

"We _both_ survive," Michonne insisted, perhaps sensing his train of thought. She raised her sword, prepared to do battle. Rick opened the door.

The kitchen was well-lit, unserved platters of horderves lining the wooden counters. It was eerily quiet, candles and lanterns throwing shadows along the dark brick. Most unsettlingly were the trails of crimson pooling along the stone ground. Rick's breath caught in his throat.

"What in God's name?" he exhaled. Michonne similarly tensed behind them.

"We must be quick," she whispered, her words a harsh snap.

Rick nodded. He began to move, guiding her around puddles. Despite his best efforts, the hem of her skirts sopped up the horrible mess beneath them. Michonne resolutely did not look down.

"What caused this?" Rick asked aloud. There were no animal prints to be seen here, only the outline of boots and women's shoes.

Michonne did not answer. Instead, she hurried to the door leading outside to the gardens. From the other side of the kitchen, the door leading to the dining room was thrown wide open. Overcome with a need to know the truth, Rick walked towards it. The sight that awaited him struck fear into his very soul.

The room was pure carnage, a horror not unlike a battlefield. The corpses of the ball attendees were strewn about, posed in grotesque piles. Worse still were the apparent culprits. The servants, or something that had once been the servants, were bent over the nearest of the dead, mouths bloodied, feasting like wild beasts.

He gasped despite himself. The eyes of the nearest of the wild humans found him. With a groan like a dying man, the servant stood up. Jerky, unnatural movements began to carry him in Rick's direction.

Rick fired his gun, striking the monster right between the eyes. It went down in a heap. The rest of the monsters, their eyes dead, unseeing, whipped their heads up in his direction. They set upon him at once, their movements, jerky, uneven, scarcely human. Rick felt himself freeze from the shock of it.

"Rick!" Michonne's scream drew him out of paralysis. She rushed for him right as the monsters reached him. A swing of her sword parted the arms of his attacker from its body. The limbs fell, but the monster still pursued, bloody mouth dripping gore as it snapped at him like some wild thing.

Michonne's next swing took its head clean off, sending it sailing into the dining room. None of the other monsters gave the incident pause. Michonne readied herself to fight again. Rick seized her around the waist, tugging her backwards. He slammed the door between the dining room and kitchen, throwing the lock.

Michonne panted in his arms, her eyes wide. From the other side of the door, the creatures growled and moaned, a grotesque, rattling sound. Rick held her tighter, needing a moment to come to terms with what they had both witnessed.

"Dead," Michonne's voice was a croaked whisper. "They were dead, Rick." Her hand clutched at his, the nails digging in.

Rick could think of nothing to say. His mind was occupied solely with the desire to leave this place, to spirit Michonne to safety. He tucked his pistol into his belt, pausing only to grab a large butcher's knife from the counter.

"Come," he seized Michonne's hand, tugging her out of the kitchen, shutting the door behind them and praying that it would hold.

The night was cold, nearly moonless, only a sliver of pale light guiding them as they ran across the dewey lawns. Michonne had lifted her skirt and easily kept pace.

"Those were people," her cry was full of anguish, confusion. Rick's mind spun.

"It must be a plague," he told her, still rushing forward. The stables grew close. He could hear the sounds of the horses, nickering in their stalls. It brought him a moment of relief.

"A plague that turns man against one another?" Michonne questioned. Her eyes were wide, fear plain on her face.

Rick had seen much in his life. He did not suppose it would take too considerable of an effort to turn men against one another in savagery. He voiced his thoughts.

"Where will we go?" Michonne asked him. "What if the plague has spread?"

The thought was a sobering one. "We will go to my estate." He had not bothered with hiring servants after his return from the war, much preferring solitude, or the company of Shane Walsh. He had food enough for them both for a month, walls high enough to defend. Perhaps they could wait this out, whatever it was, or find a way to flee more permanently. It had been his sincere hope to bring Michonne to his home under far fairer circumstances, but he found himself grateful that he had been at her side when the threat began. It seemed God smiled on their union.

They reached the stable doors and Rick opened them, ushering Michonne inside. Behind them, from the house, they heard a scream. He turned in the dark, barely able to make out the forms of two people running from Walsh Manor. For a moment, the door behind was illuminated. It soon darkened again, the forms of dozens of creatures staggering towards the couple in flight.

"Rick," Michonne's voice was frantic. "They need help." She raised her sword, clearly with half a mind to run to their rescue.

Rick was already in motion. He threw the reins over his chestnut mare, leading her out without a saddle. "Michonne," he called her, "please hand me those." He pointed towards the wall of the stables.

She complied, tossing a second pair of reigns into his open hand. Rick affixed them to a black mare near his, tugging both horses from their stalls. He reached for Michonne next, seizing her around the waist and lifting her. She climbed atop the brown mare, clinging to its neck. Rick jumped on behind her.

"Hold on, love," he instructed, placing the reins in her hands. He held the second horse beside them with one hand, and Michonne around the waist with the other. She settled herself, dress spread around them, the fabric billowing in the wind. With a nudge of his heels, both animals burst through the open doors of the stables.

They galloped across the open field, not as Rick wished in the direction of his home, but back to Walsh Manor. The monsters were in hot pursuit of the couple groaning and salivating, looking like something from a nightmare. Rick leaned forward, spurring the horses on. Michonne lifted her sword, clinging to the reins with one hand.

"Rick!" the man running yelled to them in a voice that Rick would have recognized anywhere in the world. Rick seized his pistol, taking aim, hitting the nearest of the monsters in the head. It crumpled, but the others still came.

The black mare reared, attempting to bolt, nearly toppling Rick from his seat. He gave a cry, drawing the attention of the creatures towards him and Michonne. One of the monsters caught his tailcoats in one bloodied first, yanking. Rick struggled out of his jacket, watching it tumble from the horse and into the darkness.

"Climb on!" Michonne screamed at the new pair, reaching backwards to steady Rick. She pushed the other horse in their direction.

Shane was quick to comply. Bodily, he tossed his partner atop the horse before jumping on himself. They were not quite seated atop the mare when it took flight. Rick jerked the reigns on his own horse, spinning the animal away from the threat.

Michonne's hair came loose and streamed behind her, brushing Rick's cheek as they rode at a breakneck pace. He found that he was quite breathless, sweat causing his suit to cling to his skin. He chanced a glance behind him and was pleased to see that the monsters were far behind, and growing smaller still.

"Love, are you all right?" he held Michonne closer, whispering into her ear.

She nodded, trembling somewhat. Her sword, bloodied nearly to the hilt, was still gripped tightly in her fist. Her eyes were trained away from him, her face ashen. Rick chanced a glance upward and was met with the reproachful stares of his best friend and the woman who had fancied herself to be his love.

Lori's hair was a windblown mess, her makeup ruined from either sweat or tears, Rick knew not which. He felt a momentary pang of guilt at the sight of her.

"So," she said, voice heavy with judgment. "This is where you got off to." Her gaze fell to Michonne.

Rick supposed it was the first time that Lori had ever truly looked at her. How else to explain her ignorance of the truth of his affections? He had loved Michonne for the better part of a year, for longer than that still from afar. Lori had never noticed his lingering stares, the distance that grew between he and she like a chasm as Michonne and Rick had come ever closer.

Michonne tilted her chin up, meeting Lori's eyes head on. Rick found himself looking at Shane. His friend had gone red in the face. It was not anger that colored his features. Rick thought perhaps he detected confusion, and something almost like relief. They exchanged a measured look, an unspoken truth coming to an inconvenient head.

"I thought it was high time we begin spending our lives with who we truly desire," Rick did not sugarcoat his words. He looked to Lori, then Shane in turn. "I have been besotted with Michonne far longer than we have been involved, but I did not know she felt the same. My intention was not to hurt you, Lori, but to step out of the way of both of our happiness."

Lori's complexion became more blotchy in the moonlight. She craned her head to look at Rick as their horses cantered along. "You do not deny your infidelity?" she challenged.

Rick let out a chuckle. Michonne tensed against him. "Lori, if there was ever infidelity, it was when I allowed our families to pressure the two of us into a union. Michonne is the only woman I love, and the only one I have ever loved." He had scarcely deigned to so much as hold Lori's hand from the moment Michonne confessed her affection for him, had pushed the wedding back months at a time.

The statement hung between the odd foursome, charged. Michonne shifted against him. Her free hand left the reins and found his. Rick caught it deftly.

Lori sniffled, but it was Shane who sought to comfort her, not Rick. "Lori," he began, his voice a deep rumble. "Perhaps this is for the best."

Shane looked up at Rick again. A thousand words went unspoken between them, the culmination of decades of friendship coming to an abrupt and mutual end. Rick only nodded. He tugged the reins in his hand, preparing to turn the mare once again.

"I wish the pair of you good luck," Rick told them. Michonne remained silent. Lori sniffled.

"And to you as well," Shane gave Rick a lingering look, the hint of a smile on his lips.

Without another word, Rick turned his horse away. He did not glance back. The world rolled by beneath them, flashes of color in a sea of darkness. Over grass and glen they fled, the only sound the persistent clop of the horse's hooves, and an occasional, bone-chilling moan. His family home grew larger in the distance, an ebon shadow even in the dark. It had been in his family for more than a century. Rick had never been so happy to lay eyes upon it.

The dead were gathered at the gates, wandering aimlessly.

"Is this the only entrance?" Michonne asked. She had never graced the halls of his estate, not yet.

Rick nodded. "My grandfather thought it best. In the even that we ever needed to defend our home, one entrance would prove most wise." Wars had a profound effect on men, and the Grimes family had seen more than its share. Perhaps no conflict had come to the shores of Britain since the Queen began her reign, but the memories of past horror were not easily put aside.

"Then through the front gate we will go," Michonne said resolutely.

She readied her sword, swinging as they charged through. Blood spattered, the horse neighed in panic, but they pushed ahead, trampling the dead beneath them. Rick dismounted, scrambling to open the lock as the creatures pressed in around them. From his pants pocket, he drew his key ring, hurrying for the gate. He thrust it into the lock, turning it. The gate resisted, squeaking in protest. Rick leaned his weight into it. The monsters clawed and pulled at his dress shirt. Rick swung back blindly with the butcher's knife.

"Hurry!" Michonne gave a shout, grunting as she fended off another wave of the dead from horseback. They fell at the hooves of her mount. She looked more valiant than the generals in the Crimean War, and for a moment, Rick was in awe just to look at her. There was a flush to her cheeks and she cut their enemies down, stabbing and parrying in turn as though the sword were a part of her arm.

The mare began to rear in fear, overcome at last by the stench of the enemy, by the haunting timbre of their moans. Michonne slipped perilously towards the edge, rocking wildly as she sought to maintain her hold. Rick dropped the key to the gate, turning instead to catch her before she fell into the gaping mouths laying in wait. She hit his arms hard and he almost went down, but managed to keep his feet beneath them through sheer force of will.

With something like a scream, the mare bolted, tearing off into the night. Some of the dead turned, following in pursuit. Michonne, still in Rick's arms, kicked out for the unlocked gate. It opened a few inches with a mighty creak. Rick rushed them through, slamming it shut behind them.

"They key," he shouted. It was somewhere on the darkened ground. Michonne climbed out of his grasp, stabbing through the bars with her sabre. She caught a creature across its face, opening a gash. It did not stagger back. The light from her sword caught a sliver of moonlight, illuminating the keyring among the trampled ground. Rick dove for it, throwing it into the lock. It turned again with a satisfying click. The threat ended all at once, the couple standing on one side of the iron fence, the bars and a 10 foot hedge sheltering them.

In the distance, the horse gave a pitiful cry, then silenced. Michonne began to weep. Rick wondered fleetingly if it was relief or grief that was the chief cause of her tears. He drew her to him, sheltering her in his arms.

"It is all right," he soothed, trying to calm his own shaking. "It is all right."

He walked them up the path to his home, every whistle of wind and mysterious creak only heightening his paranoia. The front door opened easier than the gate had. Rick guided Michonne inside, locking and barring it behind them. He lit a lantern nearby, illuminating the pair of them.

They looked a mess, to put it quite plainly, blood splattered and disheveled. Michonne's beautiful crimson dress was a torn shamble. Rick noticed with a start that his own suit was ripped clean through, from what he could not guess. He had meant to carry her over this threshold as his wife the first time she entered. His eyes fell to the ring on her finger, glinting as brightly as the sword still caught in her hand.

"We made it," she said, her voice loud in the eerie quiet. She turned her wide, wondering eyes on him.

"We did," he agreed. Throwing formality to the wind, he caught her around the waist, kissing her soundly. Michonne swayed dizzily before dropping her sword in lieu of holding him instead.

He carried her to the master suite, setting the lantern down as he set about the task of making her comfortable. The blood he wiped away with cloth and water. Her dress he replaced with a silk robe from the wardrobe. She looked angelic in the wake of so much destruction, her locs curling around her face, her lips parted as he saw to her care with gentle affections. Rick gladly told her so.

"I love you," she responded, catching his hand. She drew him down, an expression on her face that set his blood aflame.

Rick sat beside her, suddenly aware of their lack of decorum. He was half undressed with a woman in his bedroom, and completely unchaperoned besides. King's Grove would have been scandalized. Rick only felt his heart begin to race.

"I love you too," he kissed her palm, leaning forward to brush his lips against hers.

In his mind, they would have gone to a chapel, married before a priest. There would be a feast of sorts, then a honeymoon suite. Reality had deprived him of this fantasy, but instead gifted them both an opportunity to live. Perhaps Michonne realized this, or perhaps she had simply grown weary of waiting. Either way, she linked her arms around his neck, pulling Rick closer.

The feel of her beneath him was more pleasurable than he could have possibly imagined, the sounds escaping her maddening him in the most pleasant of ways. Her hands, strong and persistent, gave satisfaction and torture in turn. He reached between the folds of her robe, touching her gently at first. When she offered no protest but only a plaintive sigh, he slipped his other hand in to join it.

Her body was warm, pliant, inviting. Her skin sharing the smooth texture of the silk adorning her. Michonne had no qualms about exploring his as well, running her palms down his arms, across his chest, around his waist. When she stroked him, he cried out, biting down lightly on her shoulder. This seemed to please her so she did it again, and again, until he was all but panting against her, flushed and needy.

She squealed in delight when he flung her robe open, pressing messy, opened mouth kisses against her dark skin. He caught one breast in his mouth, the other in a rough palm, massaging and laving until she was squirming beneath him. Her legs encircled him, the heat there making him dizzy.

"Rick," she gasped, "My love-" her voice broke, and she arched against him as his hand dragged downwards, stroking her.

He groaned as well, sitting up to look at her. Her lower lip was caught between her teeth, her eyes lidded in pleasure. She curled one hand into the hair at the nape of his neck, bracing herself.

Rick steadied himself, proceeding slowly, refusing to inflict pain upon his love. She cried out, not in anguish, but clearly pleasure. She was heaven in human form, velvety perfection, gripping him until he was sure he would never want to be free. Her name began to fall from his mouth, a frantic, plaintive cry. He fell forward, bracing his arms on either side of her head. She cupped his face between her palms, running fingers through the stubble adorning his chin.

"You're mine," she said in wonder, gasping as though she had only just realized it.

"Yours," he confirmed, moving forward. She cried out again. "Yours," he repeated, and again, she moaned throatily.

"Oh Rick," now it was she who muttered his name, a frantic tumble of words and unintelligible moans, sighs and swallowed groans. He had heard that women were often shy on nights such as these, tentative. It seemed, where his love was concerned, that this was an outright lie.

He pulled her into his arms, hiking her legs ever higher. She cried out her approval, tossing her head back, bracing herself against his forearms. On and on it went, a delicious push and pull, this newfound ecstasy so dizzying that Rick was sure for a moment that they had both ascended.

There was no sweeter sound on Earth than his name becoming a shattering moan as Michonne climaxed around him, a shiver running through her that sent her spiraling. Her body convulsed around his, pulling him deeper still.

"Michonne," his mind had gone white with pleasure, his body suddenly not his own. He knew he was speaking, but could not discern the words.

She stroked his hair, holding him until he returned to earth, panting and flushed. He was afraid for a moment that his weight would be too much for her, but Michonne only clung to him tighter, reclining beneath him.

"I have long dreamed of this," she admitted on a sated sigh.

Rick smiled at her. "As have I." For a moment, he forgot the world outside, forgot the horror. "I had hoped to give you a wedding first," he told her, regretful. "I pray you do not think I sought to dishonor you-"

She silenced him with her lips, kissing the uncertainty away. "This is where we belong," she affirmed. "Together."

Rick could not disagree.

The sun rose early, as was its habit in the summer. Rick slipped from the bed, leaving Michonne beneath the covers. From the bedroom window, he could see across his property and further, far over the hedge and to the world beyond. The monsters dotted the horizon like sheep in a field, meandering endlessly. Some were dressed in ballroom attire, some in servant's garb, more still in nightclothes. The sight was somehow less horrifying in the light of day, but more shocking. This was no nightmare, at least not the sleeping kind.

Michonne stirred from their bed, blinking awake. "Did you sleep?" she questioned quietly, looking at him. Light from the window streaked across her face, highlighting the rich hue of her skin. He felt a stirring his chest, a sudden gratefulness, despite their situation.

Rick shook his head. "I did not sleep," he told her. The butcher knife had not strayed far from his hand the whole night long. Nodding, Michonne crawled from the covers, unabashed in her nudity as she came to join him at the window. She looked wordlessly down at the world as it was now. Rick draped his arms around her waist, holding her close. She fit naturally against him, as though they were always destined to be together this way.

"It was not a dream," she sighed, her eyes still lingering beyond the window.

Rick traced his thumb along the skin of her hip, turning his face into her cheek. She leaned into him, winding her arms backwards around his neck.

"We will weather it," he promised her. "Whatever it is."

Smiling, Michonne kissed him.


	6. Summer Vacation Part 1

**A/N: Summer went by way too quickly this year, but msdoomandgloom and I managed to finish up a last story for the hottest months. We hope you enjoy, and as always, please look for her art on tumblr and twitter. **

**Stay tuned for updates on Wednesday**

* * *

It was worth all of the inconvenience, Rick decided, when he saw Judith's smile as the Atlantic came into view. It had been her idea after all, articulated as only a 4-year-old could.

"Daddy, where is the ocean?" she had asked him two weeks ago. Clutched in her fist had been a wrinkled sheet of paper, their family rendered in bright Crayola tones. It was Rick, Carl, and Judith, standing on a tan strip of beach in front of blue triangles. That little crayon drawing had moved something in Rick, and perhaps in Carl too. Before they knew it, Carl had the family laptop open on the kitchen table. They'd plotted a course, secured a room, and two days before school had even let out, Rick had the whole of his family loaded in his truck, headed down the road for the Carolinas.

Their rented beach house had seen better days, but no member of the Grimes family really minded. Carl and Judith went streaking off from the truck the moment Rick put on the brakes. Sand kicked up behind them as they squealed in delight, shouting eagerly about sand castles, bonfires, and the potential to make s'mores just inches from the ocean.

Rick had to admit it had charm, if not air conditioning. They weren't inside much anyway. A week of long days in the sun and long nights by the sea stretched around them. Carl and Judith turned bright red despite Rick's best efforts, but the sunburns didn't get in the way of their fun.

"Carl, watch your sister," Rick cautioned.

"I got her, dad," Carl promised, taking Judith's hand. Together, they picked their way down to the beach, the waves licking at their toes. Rick grinned, pulling on his shades, and sat back in his plastic chair.

Lori hadn't been much of a beach person, or an outdoor person at all. His former wife much preferred the sanctity of urban spaces, planning vacations to Atlanta and New York City. They'd had fun carting Carl around in his stroller, wandering museums and malls hand-in-hand. As time went on, vacations came less frequently, fading away with long hours at work, with late-night arguments, with an unexpected pregnancy. And when Lori got sick- Well, a lot of things had stopped then.

"Dad!" Carl called for him, snapping Rick out of his stroll down memory lane. "Come get in with us."

Judith ran back and forth between the waves, jumping and splashing in delight. Rick grinned at his kids.

"Yeah, son," he stood up. "I'm coming." Rick pulled his t-shirt over his head before sprinting headlong for the water. Carl tackled him gleefully into the sand.

They went down in a frenzy of laughter and limbs, sputtering as salt water slapped into their eyes. Judith rushed to Rick's defense, splashing at her brother until the trio was laughing themselves into stitches.

"Someone is having a good morning," a melodic voice, unfamiliar but pleasant, broke through the ruckus.

Rick glanced up through salt-soaked eyelashes at the woman entering the water. She was holding a surfboard under one arm, her wetsuit pulled down to her waist. Her dark skin glowed in the morning sun, offset by a bright purple bikini top. The long locs of her hair were piled high atop her head in a tight bun.

"Hi," it was Judith who intoned brightly, glancing up at the stranger with friendly curiosity.

"Hi yourself," the woman said back. "I'm Michonne."

"I'm Judes," Judith used her nickname. "And that's Carl, and that's our Daddy." She pointed at each in turn.

Sand-streaked and breathless, Rick clambered to his feet, extending a hand. "Rick," he greeted.

Michonne shifted her board beneath her other arm, shaking his palm. "Pleasure," she smiled. "Are you staying for the summer?" she asked.

"We are," again, it was Judith, over-eager and delighted to answer. "Are you?"

"I am," Michonne grinned at the little girl. "My house is right up there." She pointed.

"We're neighbors," Rick observed. The thought made his pulse speed up for some reason.

"Looks like it," Michonne turned her gaze on him. She had wide, round, dark eyes. "Maybe we can team up on a bonfire sometime soon."

"Maybe," Carl said. He was looking up at the woman with slight trepidation.

"Nice to meet you all," Michonne said. She sat her board down to pull up the sleeves of her wetsuit. In seconds, she was gone, her surfboard beneath her as she paddled out expertly towards the break.

"She's nice," Judith declared, already bending over to poke at seashells beneath the surface.

"What'd you think, Carl?" Rick asked his uncharacteristically quiet son.

Carl only shrugged. He was still watching her though, his expression unreadable.

"She's pretty," Judith announced this factually. "Huh, Daddy?"

Rick kept his opinion on this to himself, privately disagreeing. Plenty of things in this world were pretty. The surfing neighbor of theirs went way past pretty. "C'mon," he splashed at his kids. "I thought we were having a water war."

Carl and Judith collapsed in an exhausted pile around lunchtime. Rick sat in his chair just beside them, watching as they drifted off to sleep atop their towels, PB&J sandwiches half-eaten around them. He moved the umbrella to shade them before reaching for the sunscreen bottle. He was slathering his face when he spotted Michonne coming up the beach, drenched and exhilarated.

"How was it?" Rick was talking to her before he even registered the impulse, eagerly awaiting her response.

She flashed him a brilliant smile. Her skin seemed to glow in the light of the afternoon as she tugged the wetsuit down again. "It was great," she said, walking closer to him. "Do you surf?"

Rick shook his head. "Not so much. I tried it a couple of times when I was younger, but-" He wasn't sure why he'd stopped, but he simply had.

Michonne nodded. "Well, if you ever want to get out there again, I have a few extra boards at my house."

Rick laughed, glancing down at his sleeping kids. "Thanks, but someone has got to watch these two."

Michonne smiled at the sight of them. Judith was sprawled half across her brother. Carl's face was covered entirely by a wide-brimmed hat.

"Well," Michonne began again. "If the kids want to learn, they're welcome to come too." She smiled at Rick. "Stop by anytime."

"Thank you," Rick was grinning like an idiot at her now, but he couldn't help himself. Grinning was better than staring at the way she looked in that bathing suit of hers. He did his best not to watch her traipse back up the beach.

The next morning, Rick took the kids outside, shouting at them to put on sunscreen and eat something. His arms were filled with breakfast, apples and peanut butter, an easy solution to their picky appetites. Their neighbor was on her porch, sipping on something warm in a mug. She waved at him.

"You're up early," she observed with a dimpled smile. She turned her gaze to his children, spinning and playing in the sand already.

"No rest for the weary," he deadpanned. It felt nice to smile at a pretty face first thing in the morning. "Hungry?" he asked, holding up a red apple.

Her smile grew larger. She happily accepted the treat, offering him coffee in return. "Something tells me you'll need the energy," she joked, watching Carl and Judith sprinting up and down the beach between the ocean and the front stairs.

"What was your first clue?" Rick asked.

She smiled, patting the space beside her. Rick happily sat down, sipping the coffee.

It became their ritual of sorts, these little snippets of conversation. Some mornings, Michonne was already on the water, some mornings she was still in what looked like pajamas, her locs arranged in a messy knot on her head. She liked her coffee black, which suited Rick just fine. He leaned against her porch, listening to her describe the surf report of the day, what the weather might be, or some current headline. Rick wasn't concerned with the details. The sound of her voice was enough to get his days started off on the right foot.

He brought her things, apples, cereal, toast with honey. She always gratefully accepted. Judith was sold on her already, eagerly awaiting the five minutes every morning where she could follow Michonne around, asking questions. Carl was less talkative. Still, his eyes watched their neighbor often, especially when she was out in the distance, surfing.

"Pretty cool, huh?" Rick ventured one day, sitting beside his son in the sand.

Carl looked embarrassed to be caught. He shrugged. "It's ok."

"I used to surf a little, with your uncle Shane," Rick told him.

This surprised Carl. He turned to his dad with interest. "Were you good?"

"I was getting there," Rick and Shane had spent most of their summers formulating plots to make it out of King's County and to the beach.

"Why'd you stop?" Carl asked.

This time it was Rick who shrugged. "Got busy with other things."

"Like us?" Carl asked.

Rick paused at this. "You guys are way more fun than surfing," he answered, grinning at his son.

Carl nodded, still staring at Michonne. In the distance, she stood on her board, steering expertly across head high waves. "It does look fun," Carl admitted cautiously.

"You know," Rick stretched his legs in front of him. "Michonne said she would teach us. Think you might want to learn?"

Carl considered this. "Would we all go?" he asked.

"Of course," Rick clasped his son's shoulder. "All three of us."

"Maybe we ask her…" Carl suggested. "She seems nice."

"I'll ask," Rick grinned. They both stared out into the distance. In front of them, Judith busied herself with sand castle construction.

It was half a fort by the time Michonne returned to the beach. Judith stood above her brother and father, doling out directions. Rick was on trench duty, shielding their creation from the waves. Carl was making towers a foot high.

"Wow," Michonne whistled when she approached them. "That's some castle, Judes."

Judith beamed at her new friend. "It needs decorations," she said.

"Maybe some seashells?" Michonne suggested. She opened her palm, offering a coral-colored clamshell. Judith seized it with a shout of delight.

"Are there more?" she asked.

Michonne nodded. "Do you have a bucket?" Judith eagerly dove for it. Michonne looked at Rick. "I can take her, if you don't mind."

"Go ahead," Rick nodded. Michonne had gone without a wetsuit today. The expanse of flawless dark skin bare to his view was threatening to turn him into a simpleton. Surfing had done her body good. She was all curves and muscle, framed in long dark hair and a blinding smile. Rick became suddenly aware that he was covered in sand again, on his knees in a child's sandcastle.

"Carl," Michonne offered kindly. "Would you like to come with us?"

Carl looked nervous, but Judith immediately seized his hand. "C'mon," she shouted, dragging him with her.

"Have fun," Rick called after them.

He watched as they splashed in the shallows. Judith's enthusiasm was catching. Michonne was patient with his children, showing them how to spot the shells beneath the sand, categorizing them and sorting the prettiest into Judith's bucket. Even Carl smiled a time or two.

"They like you," Rick told Michonne later that night. They'd started a bonfire between their houses. Carl and Judith stood on the outskirts, constructing s'mores with dutiful concentration.

"I like them," Michonne flashed that smile again. Rick grinned back.

"Carl was watching you surf earlier. I think he might like to learn," Rick said.

Michonne sat beside him in a beach chair to match his own. She buried her toes in the sand in front of them. From the cooler beside her, she retrieved two cans of beer, cracking open one, then the other. She handed Rick one. "He's a thinker, your son," she observed.

Rick took a gulp, watching as Carl helped Judith load marshmallows onto the pronged end of a skewer. "He's been like that since their mom passed." He didn't mean to say it, but it came out nonetheless.

Michonne froze a beat, then nodded, sipping her own drink. A silence lingered between them, charged and heavy. Rick held his breath. Michonne spoke at last. "I think he'll like surfing," she said. "Will you come too?"

"I'll be there," he raised his can, exhaling.

Michonne clinked hers against his, smiling again.

"Michonne?" Carl's voice startled them. He was carrying a small paper plate, a goopy, giant s'more loaded atop it. "We made this for you," Carl offered, handing it to her.

"Thank you," Michonne exclaimed as though Carl had gifted her a diamond tennis bracelet. She took a healthy bite, moaning delightedly around the treat. Carl smiled. Rick found himself staring at Michonne's lips as she licked at the sugar. He flushed, averting his eyes.

"It's good?" Carl asked tentatively.

"It's great," Michonne responded, taking another bite. "Do you know what kind of chocolate I like to make them with?" she asked.

"No," Judith skipped over, refusing to be excluded. "What?"

"Big Kats."

Carl's eyes lit up. "Those are my favorite."

"Mine too!" Judith yelled. She began sorting the marshmallows and chocolate in their bowl, counting the sweets under her breath.

Michonne popped a bit of graham cracker between her full, curved lips. "Maybe we can walk to the market and get some tomorrow after surfing." She looked at Rick for confirmation. Rick winked at her.

Carl looked enthused by the mere suggestion. "Ok," he agreed seriously. He scampered away, tugging Judith with him, riling her up about the crabs that popped out of their sandy holes after sunset.

Michonne lingered at the fire with Rick, watching his children shout happily up and down the beach.

"How are they doing?" she asked simply.

Rick's heart stuttered. "They're…doing good all things considered."

She nodded, looking as though she believed it. "And you?" she questioned.

Rick hesitated. "It's been hard," he admitted. Some days he missed Lori, missed what they had been in the beginning. Some days he didn't think of her at all. Worst were the days where he remembered the fights, the cruel barbs, her voice when she berated him. Those old hurts opened when he least expected it, when he saw a shadow of her expression cloud Carl's face, or heard Judith start to argue with her brother. "What about you?" he turned the subject from him, eager to discuss anything else.

"Me?" Michonne uncrossed her legs, leaning closer to him over her chair. "What is it you want to know about me?" she asked.

"Everything," the word rushed out and Rick blushed immediately, mortified. Michonne only smiled.

"Well, that's a lot to cover in one night," she teased.

Rick grinned lopsidedly at her. "Good thing we're here for the summer," he reminded her.

She was a lawyer, Rick learned, for a big firm, but she spent her weekends working pro bono for families who needed legal counsel in Charleston. Michonne said this all casually, as though millions of people did this sort of thing, turned money aside to pursue the common good.

"What do you do?" she asked him, cracking another beer. She was folded prettily into her lawn chair, her bare legs twisted together against the ocean breeze. Rick watched goosebumps dance across her skin and resisted the urge to smooth them away with his hands.

"I'm a sheriff," he told her, clearing his throat. "Or… I was."

"Retired?" she asked.

Rick took a deep gulp of the lukewarm beer. "I took a break. My wife, she used to stay at home with the kids. And when she…" he swallowed, suddenly unable to look at her. "Well, they needed someone there. So, I'm home now."

Michonne looked at him. The dying embers of the bonfire sent shadows dancing across her features. It was a stunning face, one that Rick thought about often, more now than he did about Lori's. He felt a sting of guilt at that, at the familiar pang of wrongs he had never managed to right.

"How long has it been?" Michonne asked gently.

"A year and a half," Rick answered. It had actually been 524 days, but he thought it best not to disclose the specifics.

"Is this your first trip since then?" Michonne questioned.

Rick nodded, throat tight. "Judith suggested it. We just sort of picked up and came."

Michonne nodded thoughtfully. "You know, I used to come here all the time as a kid. I stopped though, with college, then the job. Then there was a man," she sighed, smiling somewhat wistfully. "This is my first summer back."

"Really?" Rick's brows jumped. "He didn't like the beach?"

She laughed. "He didn't like much, but I liked him. Life's funny sometimes."

"Ain't it?" Rick saluted her with his half-full beer. "Where's this guy now?" he pressed.

Michonne's answering glance made him sure that she knew his intentions weren't totally honorable. Still, she answered. "He's around somewhere," she waved her hand. "We don't cross paths anymore."

The answer was enough for Rick, though he wondered briefly what kind of man was stupid enough not to fight for the woman in front of him. "I'm glad you're out here," Rick told her, cheeks flushing again. He hoped she wouldn't be able to see it in the firelight.

Michonne smiled, leaning back in her chair. "I'm glad I came," she said simply. "I'm glad you did too."

She hugged him before retiring, pressing a kiss to his stubbled cheek. She smelled of smoke from the fire and the salt of the sea. Rick went to bed with the scent clinging to him, with thoughts of her tumbling in his mind's eye. He awoke at dawn, feeling as though he had a hangover. Judith and Carl were awake already and dressed. He made them eat a bowl of cereal before following them out of the house, still bleary-eyed.

Michonne was waiting on her porch, waving at the trio as they approached. "Are you ready?" she asked cheerfully. Her bathing suit was a bright yellow today. She took both of his children by the hand and maneuvered them down to the beach.

She showed them how to prepare the boards, bending over to assist Carl with the bar of wax. Rick focused his efforts on Judith and not the sway of Michonne's hips as she moved, or the rounded curves of an ass that her bathing suit was struggling to conceal.

She touched his back while she instructed Carl and Judith on how to stand up. They practiced, jumping up and down more than anything. Michonne laughed watching them. Her hand was warm between his shoulders, burning into his skin.

"Ready?" she asked, winking at Rick before bending to pick up the surfboard.

Rick hoped that he was.

Judith rode tandem with Michonne. Rick and Carl each had their own board. Rick ignored his headache, focusing instead on Judith's delighted giggles, on Carl's smile. His children were both laughing out loud by the time they made it to the smaller waves a few feet out. Carl stood up on shaking legs, managing to ride the surfboard a few yards before tumbling off. He reemerged with a giant grin.

"Did you see that, dad?" he asked.

"I did," Rick smiled.

"You're doing great," Michonne complimented. "Stand back a little further on your board and you'll stay up longer."

It wasn't long before Rick was forgotten completely. He didn't mind. Carl was concentrating with single-minded focus, a look on his face that Rick hadn't seen in years. He was laughing at Michonne's jokes, smiling at her. He even eagerly traded places with Judith to sit on Michonne's board after being promised a ride. Michonne paddled the pair of them further out, bidding Carl to hold on before she started carving up much larger waves. Carl's shouts of joy echoed over the beach, attracting the attention of onlookers. Rick found himself smiling so hard that his face hurt.

"I like her," Judith said dreamily, leaning back against her father's bare chest. "Do you think she will come home with us after the vacation?"

Rick only laughed, trying to ignore the appeal of this suggestion with limited success.

"Carl," Michonne asked the boy when they returned. "Do you think you could watch Judith while I give your dad a lesson?"

Carl nodded eagerly, hopping back onto his board to paddle Judith in. "Teach him how to surf like you," he requested. "Then we can go out every day."

"No promises," Rick joked. His pulse was pounding again. Michonne was looking at him, her wet locs loose and down her back, a look in her eyes that excited Rick for more than one reason.

"I'll do my best," Michonne promised.

They watched as the kids paddled off, heading for the sand. It wasn't until Rick saw that they were settled that he took his eyes off of them.

"Well," Michonne's smile was mischievous now. "Let's see what you've got, old man."

Rick fell more times than he cared to count, but in a half hour or so, he'd gotten his legs beneath him again. A familiar thrill filled him, an old sensation of a joy almost forgotten. He could hear Michonne's cheer as he zipped further away, hand cutting through the waves. His legs burned, his chest heaved, but Rick smiled.

Michonne caught him on the next break, settling beside him. "Not bad," she complimented. Her eyes darted down, to his bare chest, then quickly back up. "Not bad at all."

Before he could say anything else, she was up and rushing off, expertly maneuvering away. Rick followed with a grin. They made it just beyond the break when Michonne stopped, sitting down on her board and tossing her hair behind her. Rick mirrored her, dropping down, a grin splitting his face nearly in two.

"I forgot how much I liked that," he told her, exhaling. The sun beat down on his bare skin, but the breeze hastened to cool it. A shiver ran through him.

Michonne pulled her legs atop her board, bobbing with the waves. "You're good," she said, leaning forward.

"Just trying to keep up," Rick deflected. His face was running hot from her attention.

Michonne snorted lightly, shaking her head. Beneath them, the ocean crested and ebbed, pushing their boards closer together.

"What?" Rick asked, wondering what was so funny to her.

She laughed all the louder. "You," she said, still shaking her head. "You have no idea, do you?"

"About what?" he tilted his head towards her, legitimately confused.

She turned her face away from him. Rick was treated to the sight of her profile, silhouetted by the sun, the waves, and the beauty around them. He suddenly felt short of breath, reckless. He reached for her, smoothing his hand down her dark, slick skin.

"Race you back?" he challenged.

She rolled her eyes, but began paddling towards the break. "Try to keep up," she teased over her shoulder.

Considering what she looked like from behind, Rick counted himself lucky that he was even able to stand up on his board.

Carl and Judith didn't make it to s'mores that night, passing out exhaustedly. Rick tucked them in before returning to the porch. Michonne was waiting for him. Her bathing suit was gone, replaced with a t-shirt and shorts. Rick grinned at her as he wandered out of his front door.

"They're ok?" she asked fondly.

"Knocked out," Rick confirmed, leaving the door open a crack so that he could hear them. "You bought me a whole evening of quiet," he joked.

Michonne laughed lightly, then lifted a bottle of wine. "I didn't mean to crash your relaxing night," she said apologetically. "I wanted to see if you'd want a glass with me," she offered. Her voice had taken on a new tone, almost shy. Rick could have sworn she was having trouble holding his gaze. It brought a blush to his cheeks.

"Sure," he agreed readily. "It should probably be me bringing you wine though."

"Why?" she asked, bemused. She climbed the stairs to his porch. Her denim shorts clung to her muscled thighs, bunching as she moved towards him.

"For the free lessons," Rick explained. He stretched his arm over his chest, tugging to give himself something to do that didn't involve touching Michonne. His muscles would be sore tomorrow, but he relished the burn already. Perhaps he would sleep tonight without thinking about her first.

"Oh," Michonne looked embarrassed. She handed him the bottle of wine. "It was my pleasure, really." She tucked a few stray locs back from her face, tying them behind her head.

They stood on his porch, looking at one another in silence. Rick wanted to say something, but his mouth had run suddenly dry. All he could seem to think about the door behind him, his bedroom beyond, whether Michonne might like to see it. She fidgeted in front of him, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. She shivered.

"Do you want a jacket?" Rick asked, the trance broken. He reached inside for a hook by the door and handed her a hoodie. It belonged to him, a well-worn, black hoodie from his days as a sheriff. The Kings County logo was on the breast.

"Thank you," Michonne pulled it over her head. It was too big for her, but she made it look like high fashion nonetheless. Again, Rick fought the urge to stare.

Instead, he busied himself with getting glasses. He snagged a blanket off the back of the couch before heading back outside. Michonne was on the porch bench, staring out at the waves beyond.

"Here you go," Rick offered her a glass, then sat beside her. "I brought this too, just in case."

She took the blanket and cup gratefully. "Thank you," she said quietly.

Rick settled beside her, acutely aware of their proximity. Michonne spread the blanket over her legs, offering him a corner. Rick accepted it, tucking them both beneath the soft cotton.

"How long have you been surfing? Since you were a kid?" he asked. He had a million questions about Michonne, a million things he wanted to know.

She laughed lightly. "I learned a few months ago," she admitted. "You've been surfing a lot longer than me."

Rick blinked in surprise. "You're kidding."

She shook her head. "I needed a hobby. I like the beach," she shrugged, taking a sip. "It seemed like a good sport to learn."

"And you're teaching lessons already," Rick chuckled. The wine was heavy in his mouth, the deep red cabernet tingling his taste buds.

"Well," Michonne looked over at him. "I don't teach just _anybody_."

Rick flushed, wishing he had something witty to say in return.

"And," Michonne moved closer to him. "You didn't really need much teaching."

Rick's heart rattled fiercely against his ribcage. "My kids-" his tongue was like lead, his brain going fuzzy.

"Are great," Michonne finished. "They're lucky to have such a great father."

Rick realized in a moment was about to happen, that this, whatever it was, was coming to a head. He silenced the voice in his mind full of misgivings, and jumped in feet first, leaning over.

Michonne met him halfway. The wine was forgotten as their lips touched. Rick coaxed the cup out of her hand, setting it on the windowsill behind them. She scooted closer to him, the blanket tangling around them. Rick caught her face between his palms, holding her still.

He'd thought of this somewhere in the back of his head for weeks, since he'd first seen her. Her lips were against his, plush and warm, the little breaths she took before parting her mouth for him driving him wild. He plunged inside eagerly, relishing in the moan that escaped her, in the way her hands gripped at his t-shirt. She mapped the muscles of his body with flattened palms, straining towards him. Rick moved his own hands to her waist, pulling her closer still, half in his lap. Their chests were pressed flush to one another, their breathing broken and gasping.

"Rick," she whispered when he pulled away from her lips. He busied himself with kissing her neck. His hands cupped and squeezed her in turn. "Oh God…" she sighed, her head lolling forward.

He came back for her mouth then, kissing recklessly. Michonne's hands found the hem of his shirt and slid upward. He craved her touch instantly. He moved his own palms across her stomach and thighs, gripping like she belonged to him, like they belonged to one another. Her little shorts seemed like far too much clothing. Michonne must have agreed because she worked the button open. Rick took the invitation, sliding his hand in past the denim.

"Oh fuck," the curse word spilled from him as he felt her. Her arousal was painfully obvious, a searing heat that set him rock hard at once. He had done that to her. The thought was dizzying. With a sound somewhere between a choke and a growl, Rick touched her.

Michonne's mouth fell open. She leaned forward, biting down on his shoulder to stifle her moans. Rick's fingers traced her before sliding in, one, then a second. She writhed in his lap. He pressed harder still, needing to feel her fall apart, needing to be the one that unhinged her completely.

It didn't take long. A rush of warmth precluded her climax. She clung to him, crying out quietly. Rick kissed her again, gently this time.

"Michonne," he began, unsure what he wanted to say.

It did not matter. From inside the house, Judith had begun to cry. Rick could hear her through the gap in the door, the familiar whines that came with her nightmares. He realized suddenly what had just transpired. His children were inside, only meters away, their mother gone. And Rick… he was sitting outside on the porch of a beat-up beach house, seconds away from having sex with a relative stranger in plain sight.

He pulled his hand back, his eyes widening. Michonne noticed.

"You should go," she said, standing up. Her shorts were still unbuttoned, crooked.

Rick nodded, standing as well. He tugged conspicuously at his jeans. Michonne watched him, something like sadness on her face. "I'll be right back," is what he wanted to promise her, but nothing came out. Instead, he nodded again, then disappeared inside.

Carl was already by Judith's side, hugging his sister. Judith was half asleep.

"Nightmare?" Rick asked in a whisper.

Carl nodded. "She wouldn't tell me what it was." He blinked tiredly at his father. "Is Michonne still here?"

Rick felt that stab of guilt again. "We were on the porch," he managed to say.

Carl considered this. "I think she likes you," he said simply.

Rick froze. "You think?" he tried to ask conversationally.

Carl looked up at him. "Do you like her?" he asked.

Rick opened his mouth, then shut it again. "Carl…" he began.

"I think," his son cut him off. "I think it would be cool if you did." He took a deep breath. "She's really nice. And she likes us even though-"

"She's not mom," Rick ventured. His throat felt tight again.

"Maybe she doesn't have to be." Carl nodded.

Carl's words echoed as Rick tucked his children back into bed. His mind moved to Michonne. When he returned to the porch, she was gone. The wine was still sitting out, his hoodie folded neatly atop the blanket. He had half a mind to march next door, to knock and explain himself. Shame kept him rooted in place. He would tell her in the morning, apologize for moving so fast then screeching to a halt. Rick rehearsed what he would say in his head as he stared up at the dark ceiling.

But Michonne was absent again the next morning.


	7. Summer Vacation Part 2

**A/N: Thank you for the lovely response on part 1. Look for updates here on Wednesdays, and please continue to let msdoomandgloom and I know what you think. Find her on social media to see the incredibly beautiful art that goes with the story. **

* * *

Nearly a week dragged by without hide nor hair of Michonne. Carl and Judith looked eagerly for her to no avail.

"I'm sure she'll be around," Rick consoled them one morning, hoping he looked more convincing than he felt.

Carl said nothing, only led Judith down the beach. Rick sat in his chair, squinting out at the waves for a flash of her bright swimsuit, or her hair swinging like a banner behind her. He knocked on her door around lunch time, but there was no response.

He didn't even have her phone number, Rick realized. There were thousands of things he wanted to know but hadn't mustered the courage to ask. If he had been more patient, perhaps he would have had time, time to learn, time to build something. But he'd jumped the gun, given into the temptation that had been stoking all summer long, like coals in a fire. She'd been nothing but kind to him and his children, had taken them under her wing, had helped relieve their grief. He'd repaid her with a sloppy sexual favor on his porch and then turned tail and ran.

He lit the bonfire one night, five days after Michonne had disappeared, his mind still racing. Carl and Judith seemed to sense his mood. They plied him with marshmallows and soda, attempting to cheer him up.

"Dad," Carl shoved a s'more at him, sitting at his feet. "I'm sure she'll come back."

Rick could not help but smile. He accepted the treat. "Thanks, son," he ruffled Carl's hair. Carl nodded, plopping down in the sand to lean on his father's legs.

Judith was half-asleep in Rick's lap when they heard the sound of footsteps. Both Carl and Rick looked up eagerly. They were not disappointed.

"Hi," it was Michonne, not in beach attire, but in a summer dress, walking towards them barefoot. Her sensible flats were in her hand, along with a small paper bag. Her skirt billowed around her calves, the red fabric bright and sunny, even in the darkness. Rick felt the air rush out of his lungs.

"Michonne!" Carl yelled her name, waking his sister. Both children took off towards her, kicking up sand behind him, leaving Rick reeling in his chair.

"Where were you?" Judith asked, tackling Michonne around the legs. Michonne hugged the girl back, smiling winningly.

Michonne rooted in her paper bag. "I had to go for a few days." She pulled out two Big Kat bars. "But I couldn't come back without _these_."

The kids eagerly accepted Michonne's gift, racing to concoct a second round of dessert. Michonne's eyes turned to Rick. He stood up at once, ramrod straight.

"You look really pretty," he told her, voice thick. Michonne stared back at him. Rick took a step towards her. "More than pretty," he amended. "You look beautiful."

She shifted, stirring the sand beneath her toes. "I needed to go to town for some work things," she explained in a rush of breath.

"Oh." Rick looked at his kids, still occupied. He lowered his voice, trying to keep it even. "I wanted to come by that night—"

"You don't have to explain," Michonne said quickly. There was something like resignation on her face. Rick wondered what it had taken to get her to come back here, to approach him after what had happened. The depth of her affection for his children hit him in one dizzying moment.

"I do." Rick answered. "I want to." He wanted lots of things, truth be told.

Michonne swallowed, opening her mouth, then shutting it again. Her posture relaxed just the slightest, her shoulders slumping forward. She looked right on the brink of allowing him this favor, but their moment was cut short.

"Michonne," Judith interrupted them, running a crooked path from the fire to the pair of the adults, blissfully unaware of the tension. "Can you help me?"

Michonne turned towards the little girl, fixing on a smile. "Sure, Judes. Do you want to make one for your daddy?" She took Judith's hand, answering her mile-a-minute inquiries about where she'd been all week.

Rick was left standing there, dumbfounded and frustrated. Romance had never come easy to him, but there had been a time when it had been simpler. Rick found himself watching Michonne, something heavy settling inside of him. She was kneeling in the sand beside Judith, patiently helping the girl construct a towering s'more. The fire played off Michonne's face, tracing golden shadows across the dark expanse of skin that had been haunting him for days now. He could feel the ghost of her touch, the echo of her moans in his ears. He should have picked her up, should have carried her inside, should have made her his, complications be damned.

"You should take her on a date," Carl had sidled up to his father's side. His voice startled Rick out of his self-loathing.

"What?" Rick's ears were ringing. He looked down at his son.

"A date," Carl clarified. "We can go to the movies. Judith and I will sit away from you." This plan did not seem spur-the-moment. Carl had a gleam in his eye that Rick recognized at once from his own face. It seemed Michonne had not been on Rick's mind alone.

"Carl—" Rick began.

But his son was already in motion. "Michonne," he ran over to her. "Have you seen Spider-Man yet?"

Rick wasn't sure how he ended up in the theater, _way_ past his children's bedtime, ignoring the movie completely in lieu of focusing on Michonne's leg against his. The theater was relatively empty, a blessing. Carl and Judith were crowded towards the front, snacking on popcorn as though they hadn't just gorged themselves on sugar. Michonne was watching the movie, seemingly content to ignore Rick. It was torture.

"That guy's Spider-Man?" Rick leaned over to whisper in her ear.

Michonne looked sideways at him, perhaps irritated, certainly exasperated. "Rick, that's the bad guy. Are you even paying attention?"

He shook his head. "Not to the movie," he responded. It was not the smoothest line, but it had an effect.

Something in Michonne's eyes darkened. "Rick…" she cautioned.

"I'm sorry," he launched into it, words he'd rehearsed all week tumbling out in a hushed rush. "I wanted to come back, Michonne. You've got no idea how much I wanted to."

"You didn't," she said simply. She wet her lips, but kept her eyes on the screen. A fight scene had begun, a mass of sound and color. Rick could hear Judith and Carl gasping delightedly from a few rows up.

"You left too," he didn't mean it as an accusation, but he needed to know why.

She shook her head, "You didn't see your face. I did."

"What did my face look like?" He had a fair idea.

"Like you'd made a mistake," the sentence came out slowly, as though Michonne were trying to control her tone. "Were you thinking about-" she broke off. Spider-Man screamed onscreen.

He hadn't been thinking about Lori, not in the way that Michonne meant. "I wasn't," he assured her. Slowly, he moved his hand, reaching for her across the armrest. "There's things about my marriage I haven't told you," he whispered again, edging closer to her. She did not pull back.

"I kind of figured," Michonne snorted lightly. Still, she looked nervous, and her hand was trembling in his own.

"I want to tell you," he said, pushing her locs from her face with his spare hand. "I want to know everything about you."

She shook her head again, hiding behind her hair. Her fingers flexed in his own. "Rick," she sighed. "Is this a good idea?"

Truly, he did not know. "I'm not sure," he admitted. "My wife and I, we had our problems. And when she got sick, we never resolved them. It's like we just pretended until the end."

Michonne stayed silent, her eyes on the film, her breathing labored.

"I'm a mess," he admitted to her. "And you deserve better than a mess."

Michonne looked suddenly downward, tucking her chin into her chest. "Rick…" she exhaled shakily. He realized with a start that she was crying. The explosions onscreen grew louder, but Rick's ears were already ringing.

"I like you," it was an understatement, but it was the best that he could articulate. "Carl and Judith like you," Rick imparted.

Michonne nodded, looking up, not at the movie but at him. "It was stupid of me," she whispered.

He shook his head. "No," his hand tightened around her. "I want to Michonne. Fuck, you don't even know how much." His chest hurt now, felt tight, like a balloon bursting somewhere inside him. "But I'm just not ready."

Michonne nodded once, then twice more in quick succession. Her hand went lax in his own. She pulled away, setting it in her lap. Rick did not touch her again.

The next few hours passed at a torturous pace. Michonne had dried her tears, had managed to smile and laugh with his children about the superhero antics they'd all just witnessed. She held Judith as they climbed back into his truck, riding in silence down the road to the beach houses. Rick stole glances at her as he drove, hyper aware of Carl in the backseat. The kids woke up enough to walk themselves from the driveway to the door. It didn't take long for them to pick up the tension.

"What's wrong, daddy?" Judith asked him. She was holding Michonne's hand.

Rick mustered a grin. "Just tired, Judes."

Carl looked far less convinced. His eyes darted between his father and Michonne. "Can we all surf tomorrow?" he asked.

Michonne smiled a bit wistfully. "I wanted to tell you," she began, kneeling to look his kids in the eye. "I have to go back to Charleston for work."

The response was instantaneous and heartbreaking. Judith burst into immediate tears, throwing herself into Michonne's arms.

"You don't want to be with us?" she wailed, clinging to the long locs of Michonne's hair.

Something passed over Michonne's face, even as she made every effort to avoid Rick's eyes. "It's not that, Judes. It's just work, ok?"

Judith continued crying. Carl looked dangerously close to tears as well. Rick moved forward, reaching for Carl's shoulders. His son was shaking.

"You guys are going to have so much fun with your dad," Michonne imparted. "I'll leave a surfboard for you, ok? You can give it back to me next summer."

"We have to wait to see you until next summer?" This time it was Carl who asked a question through his sobs.

Michonne pulled both kids to her, hugging them tightly. "Here," she compromised. She reached into her purse, pulling out her phone. "You guys can call me whenever you want. You can email me, you can text me."

"We can visit?" Judith asked, just a bit hopeful.

"I'll leave my address," Michonne told her, smoothing the little girl's hair fondly. "You're always welcome to visit me." Rick met her eyes for just a second, but it was enough to make his throat tight. He wanted to hug her too, ask her to stay, to give him time.

He said nothing.

She stood up again after many tearful hugs from the kids. Rick teetered on the edge of embarrassing tears himself.

"Go inside, ok?" he bent to kiss them each on the forehead. "Let me talk to Michonne a second."

They left, walking slowly, waving at Michonne. The two adults were left staring at one another.

"I'll leave my information," she began, her voice strangely businesslike. "They can call me anytime, if you're comfortable with it-"

Rick cut her off, pulling her towards him into a tight hug. She stiffened, but her arms came up to embrace him as well. He wanted to tell her how badly he wanted her, his history of regrets, how this would soon go on the top of the list.

"Thank you," he whispered in her ear instead. "I'm going to miss you."

She nodded, detaching from him. "Well," she held her palm out. Rick dropped his cellphone into it. "You have my number," she told him, handing the phone back after entering her information.

"You'll hear from me," he promised.

She didn't look as though she believed him in the slightest. "Take care, Rick."

"You too. I'll see you next summer," he told her.

She only waved, walking away, up the road and to her car. She climbed in and started the engine. Then she was gone.

It wasn't only Rick who felt her absence as the summer waned on. The first week without Michonne, Carl and Judith didn't do much more than mope. The sight of Big Kats was enough to send Judes into a fresh round of tears, and Carl's smile retreated again. Rick handed over his phone before he could think better of it. They spent an hour in the sand, grinning and laughing into the receiver until the battery died.

It became a ritual from there on out. Even when the summer ended and the weather began to cool, his children stole his phone in turns. There was a long stream of texts, often nonsensical, inside jokes and misspelled words, emojis and memes that Rick could barely decipher. Michonne's responses seemed patient to him, the supportive, loving tones Rick could have guessed her capable of.

Home was the same as he had left it, the house strangely empty, echoing with memories. Carl returned to school, Judith braved preschool, and Rick went back to work. It was almost as it was before, the long hours, the lonely nights. Rick worked himself to the bone, hoping it would be enough to tire him out, wondering why it was so hard to sleep in Kings County.

He checked his messages, noting that they were fewer and farther between now that school was back in session. Carl seemed to have taken up sending Michonne pictures. Rick found himself smiling at the sight of Judith at breakfast, Carl's backpack on the first day of school. He paused at the sight of his own face, remembering when Carl had snapped it a week past. He looked almost happy here, dressed in his uniform, sunglasses on his head, waiting to drop the kids off at school before heading out.

Michonne had responded with a heart.

His fingers were moving almost instantly. Rick sent his text, holding his breath. "Hey. Rick here. Thanks for being so sweet to them. Let me know if it's too much."

The three dots that popped up almost instantly had him holding his breath.

"No problem. You have good kids."

It was no nonsense. Rick could have probably said thank you, then left it alone. Instead, he typed again.

"How are you?"

The response was slower in coming, but it did arrive. "I'm alright."

There was a moment's pause. Then, "How are you?"

Rick sat up straighter in bed, leaning against the headboard. "I'm ok. Started work again."

The three little bouncing dots made an appearance. "Oh yeah? Back to sheriffing?"

"For now," Rick smiled at his phone. "How's your job?"

An eye roll emoji was fast in arriving. "My boss is driving me insane. Don't suppose you could come and arrest him?"

Rick laughed outright. "Don't think my jurisdiction extends to Charleston. I'll work on it though."

Conversation came easier from then on out. Rick wasn't much for texting, but found that he liked it immensely when Michonne was the recipient. It was easier to talk this way, to pretend like the porch incident had never happened, like they were back in beach chairs on the sand. It wasn't until his watch beeped at midnight that Rick realized that they'd been texting for hours. He could almost hear her voice while he read her messages.

"I better go to bed, sheriff," she typed at last. "I'll need my strength to deal with work tomorrow."

Rick swallowed, loathe to end the conversation, "Sleep well," he toyed with the idea of sending an emoji but decided against it. "It was good talking to you."

"Nice talking to you too," she typed back, adding a yellow smiling face for posterity.

Rick deleted the text stream after committing it all to memory, conscious that his children would likely read the messages. They were innocuous enough, but he wasn't sure he was ready for them to know that he had feelings for a woman who wasn't their mother.

Texting became a kind of ritual after that. There were messages at breakfast, squeezed in before Rick handed the phone to his children. Occasionally, he checked in with her at lunch, asking about her job, her boss. He found himself looking at his phone more than he ever had in his life.

He called her at Thanksgiving, talking briefly before handing the phone to Carl. The sound of her voice was enough to derail his train of thought for the whole of the holiday. Christmas Eve, he repeated the process, FaceTiming so that Judith and Carl could perform a stirring rendition of _Rudolph the Rednosed Reindeer_ for her.

On New Year's, she answered wearing a little black dress that left him choking on camera. Her smile was worth the embarrassment.

"You alright, old man?" she teased, laughing into her phone.

Rick cleared his throat. "You look nice," another understatement. "You going to a party?" He let his mind run wild for a moment, imagining dancing with her in a darkened room, running his hands along that smooth dark skin of hers. He bet she smelled wonderful, a mix of coconut oil and whatever perfume she'd chosen.

"I am," she toyed with one of her curled locs. "I have a date...actually."

It was like being hit in the head with a brick. "Lucky guy," Rick managed to intone through gritted teeth.

Her smile didn't quite reach her eyes. "We'll see how it goes," she mused. "Have a Happy New Year, Rick. Kiss the kids for me."

Rick spent the night watching cartoons on the couch with his kids, trying not to think about the kind of guy that would take Michonne out, wondering if they had anything in common. He resisted texting her for a few days before his resolve broke.

"How was it?" he asked, cursing himself for being so transparent.

Her response came after work. "It was alright. He's nice. Bad kisser though."

Rick felt a certain amount of satisfaction at this. It heightened with her next text.

"You're much better, for the record."

His ego swelled as he stared at those 6 words blinking up at him on the screen. A thousand responses came to mind, each as inappropriate as the next.

"Maybe I can take you out some time," he settled on at last, deleting at least ten previous drafts.

"Maybe," she responded, adding a winking face.

Michonne's birthday was Valentine's Day, a convenient coincidence. Rick dragged his kids to the store, watching as they picked out a card and a gift for her. They ended up with enough to fill a box, an amalgamation of her favorite things: Big Kats, a stuffed animal in the shape of a cat (Michonne had mentioned to Carl how much she liked them), and a bottle of wine (this was Rick). Rick slipped in a card of his own when his kids weren't looking, sending the whole package off a week in advance.

They called again on the day. Michonne laughed delightedly as Carl and Judith did their best cover of Stevie Wonder's Birthday song-at Rick's suggestion. The phone battery was almost dead when the kids finally handed it to their father.

"I got your card," Michonne told him, shy again.

Rick blushed. He checked to make sure that Carl and Judith were out of earshot before responding. "I hope I didn't overstep. I-"

"It's ok," she assured him. "I liked it."

He swallowed. His clothing felt suddenly tight. "I just wanted you to know that I think about you," he said, trying to keep his voice even. It sounded deep and raspy to his own ears. "All of the time."

She smiled. "Thank you, Rick," she said.

"You're welcome," he was going red on screen, but it couldn't be helped. "Happy Birthday. And Valentine's Day."

She blew him a kiss before hanging up. Rick went to bed thinking about it, wondering about the implications. Michonne was a hundred miles away, living her own life. She could easily have disconnected, eased away. Something kept her talking to them, and it seemed possible that it was more than just his children.

He wanted her. He'd known that for months, but it was more plausible now. He should tell her, ask her to give this a try. Rick glanced around his bedroom, looking at decorations that Lori had picked out, at the remnants of a life that seemed further and further part of the past.

His phone rang, startling him. He thought for a moment it was work, and considered pretending not to hear it. He leaned over his nightstand to where the phone was charging. Michonne's name was glowing up at him, her image frozen in a picture from the summer, a selfie with Carl and Judith pressed to her sides.

Rick hit answer before he could consider the fact that he was shirtless, in his bedroom, propped up against the headboard with his kids asleep just down the hall.

"Everything alright?" he asked her by way of greeting.

Michonne's face appeared on the screen. She'd taken off her makeup, and her hair was loose and falling down her shoulders. She was wearing her pajamas, Rick realized, sitting up in bed the same as him. His pulse began to race.

"I'm ok," she answered, voice low, almost nervous. "Just...wanted to see your face."

"I thought you'd be out for your birthday," he told her. "Or on a date."

She snorted, "Do you want me to be?" her nose wrinkled. Rick grinned at the sight.

"No," he answered point blank. "Not unless it's with me." He had half a mind to drive down there right now.

She gasped a bit at that, transforming it into a laugh. "Is that so?" she asked.

"Yeah," his voice had turned into that rumble again without his permission. "I think you know that, Michonne."

She shivered at the sound of her own name. "Are you saying you'd take me out, if you were here?" she asked, blinking innocently at him through her lashes.

He sat up, letting the blanket slide further down around his waist. He didn't miss how her eyes dropped, taking him in hungrily. "I'm saying if I were there, I'd be making sure you had a very good birthday," he told her.

"Rick," she gasped outright then, worrying her lip between her teeth. "What are we doing?"

He shrugged. "You called me, birthday girl," he reminded her.

"You wrote me that card," she threw back.

He had. It had started as a nice gesture, a simple, red, cardstock card where he intended to thank her for what she'd done for Carl and Judith. He'd written all that, but his pen had continued moving, espousing thoughts he'd had for months in his slanted, no-nonsense handwriting.

"I meant it," he told her. Every word had been the truth. He wished he had kept kissing her that day, wished he had taken her to bed. He wished they'd never had to leave the beach. He could spend an eternity in the sand with her, staring at her in those little bikinis, watching her with his kids. He wanted her there at breakfast, the way she'd been all summer. He wanted her there at nights, beside him, beneath him.

Her mouth fell open. "If I was there…" she started. "What would you do?"

Rick paused for a moment, listening. The only noise he could hear from the kids' rooms were the sounds of them snoring away. Reaching for his headphones, he plugged them in, looking at Michonne sitting in her bed, staring at him in her pajamas.

"If you were here?" he repeated.

"Yeah," she exhaled, drawing her legs up towards her chest.

Rick told her.

He woke up in his boxers atop the sheets, his mind spinning, echoing with whispered words, and panted instructions. His phone battery was nearly dead again. Hastily, he plugged it in, realizing he had to get up, had to go to work.

A hundred miles away, Michonne was probably doing the same. He wanted to be there with her. He wondered for a moment what was stopping him.

The thought would not leave him, not that day, or the week after. Carl and Judith picked up on this change in mood, though Rick was sure they didn't quite know the reason.

"Can we go visit Michonne?" Carl asked one weekend at breakfast. He'd just gotten off the phone with her, happily recounting the details of some comic book that she'd mailed him a week prior. Gifts like this came from Charleston more and more frequently now, just as Rick and Michonne's late night conversations became more of a habit.

"Maybe," Rick tried to not sound as enthused by the prospect as he felt. He'd been toying with the idea for weeks.

"Are you sure, Rick?" Michonne asked him later, her brow creasing. She was in a sports bra, in bed again.

"Why wouldn't I be?" he asked, tilting his head curiously at her.

"Because…" she sighed, pausing for a moment. "It's one thing to do what we're doing." She paused again. "It's another thing to do this in real life."

"What do you mean?" Rick questioned. "You saying we're not in the real world?"

She sucked at her teeth. "Rick, you're in Kings County. You're a sheriff. You've got two great kids...and I'm here, with a life of my own."

"What if I want you in my life?" Rick asked. "Don't you want to be in mine?"

Michonne sighed again. "How would we do that, Rick?" she asked.

The answer wouldn't seem to come.

The question kept him up all night, and for part of the next. Work seemed herculean. His day to day schedule-drop off the kids, work himself down to the bone, pick the kids up- seemed draining in a way that he'd forgotten. A familiar feeling, almost an inchiness, stirred within him. How long would he do this, go through life by the numbers? How long could he pretend to be happy doing the same old thing?

He and Michonne talked less now, something unspoken shifting between them. She was right. They couldn't be together, not now, not with things the way they were. Work was exhausting her, Kings County was trapping him. Something would have to change.

He found himself looking at real estate listings a month later. There was more than one fixer-upper in that sleepy beach town he'd fallen in love with. He crunched the numbers, realizing he could do this. It would mean selling his house, it would mean packing up, it would mean leaving the place he'd been born and raised in.

The idea wasn't wholly unappealing. Jobs were next. He checked the listings, called a precinct there, even asked about the qualifications necessary. The idea grew in his mind, transforming from a passing whim to a half-baked plan.

He mentioned it to Carl one day at dinner. His son's face lit up.

"Live by the beach?" he asked brightly.

"I was thinking it could be fun," Rick said. "It would mean leaving here though. The house, your school-" Mom. It went unsaid, but they both felt it.

Carl considered this. "I used to like it here," Carl said, measuring his words carefully. "But since mom died..." He swallowed thickly. "I think I would like it at the beach," he settled.

Judith's enthusiasm at the idea could not be contained. She asked mile-a-minute questions for a week after, wanting to see the possible house, wanting to pack everything up. She told her preschool she was leaving before anything had been decided. One of her classmates must have told their parents, because next thing Rick knew, his sergeant was calling him in, asking him if he was planning on skipping town.

"Yeah," Rick answered before he thought better of it. "I think I am."

It went quickly after that, a blur of real estate agents, of money passing hands, of boxes and moving trucks. Going through Lori's belongings was harder than he could have imagined. Her clothes he folded neatly and gave away. Her jewellery went into a box for Judith, her notebooks and photo albums were stacked and prepared to make the trip. Rick left the bedspreads, the curtains, the furniture they'd picked together a decade and a half ago with the house that no longer belonged to them.

By May, they were back in the truck, heading up the road, this time for good.

"Does Michonne know we're coming?" Carl asked.

Rick looked at his phone. He'd left her a message this morning, asking to talk to her.

"We'll call her tonight," Rick told Carl.

Carl settled into the seat, nodding importantly. In the back, Judith slept between a stack of bedding and stuffed animals that she insisted make the trip beside her instead of in boxes.

"Think she'll be happy?" Carl asked.

Rick steered up the road, getting on the freeway headed for South Carolina. "I hope so, son," he answered.


	8. Summer Vacation Part 3

**A/U: Thank you for reading and reviewing! The final**

**chapter will be up next week!**

* * *

Rick checked his reflection in the mirror of his new bedroom, straightening the sleeves of his button down shirt. At Judith's suggestion, he had forgone wearing a tie, but he still felt that he looked nice enough. His children sat on the bed, surrounded by boxes and stacks of clothing, appraising him with serious eyes.

"Your hair is getting long," Carl observed, squinting at his father.

Rick looked back at him, tugging on the chestnut locks that were now curling past Carl's ears. "Look who's talking," he teased back. Carl smiled.

"How come you shaved your beard, daddy?" Judith asked, kicking her feet against the mattress.

"I want to look nice," he explained. He pushed his sleeves up, folding them into place where he would have ordinarily just bunched the fabric. The dark blue denim looked alright, he decided. His kids had picked it out of his closet from a pile of clothing that hadn't seen the light of day in a very long time.

"Oh," Judith contemplated this. "I think you look nice with fluff on your face."

Rick bent to kiss her head. "Thanks, sweetheart." He was sure his beard would be back eventually, but for tonight, he wanted to make an effort.

"Did you get flowers? The red ones?" Judith asked.

"I'll stop on my way," he promised her.

Rick glanced down at his phone, checking the time. An unopened text message blinked up at him. He thumbed the phone unlocked, bending to read it.

"Headed home now," Michonne had written to him. "Can't wait to just unwind a little."

"Hard day?" he texted back.

Her response came quickly. "You have no idea. I need a break. And a hug."

He smiled to himself. "I'll see what I can do."

"Planning on sending me one all the way from Georgia?" she asked with a smiley face.

"Something like that," he sent back cryptically.

"She's going to be so surprised," Carl said brightly, watching Rick gather his wallet and car keys.

The sitter was at the door by the time Rick reached the living room. He bent to kiss each of his kids on the head.

"Be good," he instructed.

"We will," Carl said. "Say hello to Michonne for us, ok?"

"I will," Rick promised.

He was in his truck and heading up the road within minutes, a grin splitting his face. He navigated the unfamiliar streets, his mind tumbling. When he stopped to grab roses, the first hints of doubt began to creep into him.

"Promises, promises…" Michonne had written back. Her message glowed on the phone's screen.

Rick did not know how to respond. One part of him remained excited that he'd soon be seeing her, but anxiety was growing, fraying his nerves. Last time they faced one another, it had been strained, awkward. He'd made her cry. Rick swallowed nervously, steadying his breathing as he turned onto the street Michonne lived on. Her apartment complex came into view, a cream colored, neat stack of buildings. Rick parked his truck, seized the roses, and picked up his phone.

"Are you home?" he asked, texting quickly.

"Yes," her response came back again. "Why?"

"I wanted to call you, is all," he messaged, palms sweating.

His phone began to ring within moments. Rick tucked it into his pocket, ignoring the vibration. He counted the doors as he walked, looking for her number. When he got to the second floor, he found it. Steeling his nerve, he raised his fist and knocked on door 243.

"One second!" Michonne's voice called out. His phone silenced a moment after. He could hear her walking towards the door, her feet moving ever closer. The locks tumbled, and she opened it, her phone still in her hand.

"Hey," Rick said, wetting his lips, his stomach doing somersaults.

Michonne's mouth fell open at once and she nearly dropped her phone. Hastily, she set it aside on a small corner table before turning to him once again.

"Rick?" she asked, shocked. "What are you doing here?"

"I came to see you," he responded.

She stepped outside, mere inches from him, her bare feet touching the tips of his boots. "Where are the kids?"

"They're at home; with the babysitter," he shuffled nervously.

"You left them in Georgia?" he could see her mind spinning, trying to work this out.

Rick smiled a bit. "I've been meaning to tell you, but I thought I'd surprise you."

She looked at him with wide-eyes while he caught his breath.

"We bought a beach house near the one from last summer." He rocked on his feet. "So, home isn't so far from here anymore."

Michonne was still for a moment. Rick felt fear plunge ice-cold through him.

"Rick," she said slowly. "Are you telling me you moved here?"

"I am," he nodded.

Her hands reached for him, lightning quick as she yanked at his dark denim shirt, pulling him over the threshold. Michonne shut the door with a resounding slam before throwing herself into his arms. Rick dropped the bouquet, but barely noticed, catching her around the waist as her lips came crashing towards his.

He wasted no time, slanting his mouth down over hers. She moaned against him, curling her fingers into first the collar of his shirt, then his carefully brushed hair. Rick picked her up, reversing their positions so it was Michonne whose back was to the front door. She let out a muffled squeal, but offered no protest as he leaned his weight against her.

She tasted amazing, like red wine. Rick deepened their kiss, sucking at her. Her leg curled around his waist, the fabric of her yellow dress bunching and wrinkling. He ran his hands up, refamiliarizing himself with the smoothness of her skin.

"Does this mean you're happy to see me?" he asked, pausing to kiss her neck. The tips of his fingers skimmed the lacy cotton of her panties. She squirmed against him.

"I can't believe you're here," she whispered in awe. She stroked his face, running a thumb down from his mouth to his chin. "Where'd the beard go?" she teased.

"Wanted to impress you," He admitted. He kissed her again.

"You did," she told him, punctuating her statement with her lips. "But I kind of liked the beard."

"Yeah?" the scruff was born more of lack of time than any true purpose. He hadn't expected her to like it.

"I wondered what it would feel like," she mused, "Especially on my thighs."

His knees nearly went out from under him at the statement. He'd heard her talk like this before, on late night calls, her voice echoing through his headphones. He intended to make good on a long list of breathless promises.

"Shit," he cursed. His plan for tonight was rapidly fleeing his mind.

"What?" she asked innocently. Rick allowed himself a moment to enjoy the play of her lips and tongue on his before he pulled back.

He kissed her temple, nuzzling his face closer to hers. "I want to take you out," he told her.

"Out?" she asked, looking as dizzy as he felt. Her leg arched around his waist, and Rick's resolve splintered again.

"On a date," he clarified, taking a deep breath. "I want to take you on a date."

"Right now?" her fingers toyed with his hair, then the buttons of his shirt.

"Well, for a year now," he said. "But yeah. Right now. If you want to," he added.

She laughed in disbelief. "I thought-" she broke off. "I didn't expect you to come."

He caught her lips with his again, kissing her until she went slack in his arms. An idea began to form in his mind, a sudden urge to right an old wrong. He picked her up, enjoying her surprised little squeak.

Rick walked her backwards, the fabric of her dress swaying around them both. He eased her down onto the cushions. "Lay back," he requested, levering himself over her body to whisper in her ear.

She nodded, slowly relaxing. Rick ran his hands up her bare legs, beneath her skirt. She let out a shuddering moan. He kissed her, trailing his mouth over her neck, over her breasts, down to her stomach.

"Rick," she called out, breathless. "I want to see you."

He sat up, working the buttons of his shirt open. Michonne watched him through heavily lidded eyes as he set it aside. She'd seen his bare chest dozens of times, last summer and through her phone. Her appreciative looks then didn't compare to the expression that crossed her face now. She reached for him, her skin against his sending a delightful shiver through him.

Rick helped her out of her dress, then himself out of his jeans, enjoying the luxury of laying with her so close. Her body was warm against him, familiar already. He touched her, holding her around the waist, filling his palms with her rounded curves. The heat of her grew nearly unbearable, especially pressed against his thigh. She was grinding against his leg without seeming to give it thought, begging him for something they both wanted. Rick ached for her so badly that it seemed likely to kill him. In the past, he'd been forced to relieve himself, listening to Michonne's voice, pretending it was her hands that were on him. Now, he hooked his fingers into the waistband of her panties.

She shivered as he pulled them off, gasping for air brokenly. Rick kissed every inch he exposed while he dragged the scrap of fabric down her legs. He laid his head against her stomach, holding her until her trembling stilled.

"There's so much I want to do with you," he pressed his lips to her again, delighting in her gasp. "But I'm going to start with this."

He tossed her legs over his shoulders as he went to his knees for her, diving in without trepidation. Michonne screamed outright, burying her hands in his hair tight enough to sting. He smiled in satisfaction, taking his time, touching her the way he'd seen her touch herself over the last few months.

"Oh," she gasped, rolling her hips into his face. Rick held her down, sucking and licking until she was moaning loudly. "God...Rick," she panted, her legs beginning to shake.

"I've got you," he promised her, kissing the inside of her thighs before beginning again.

The sounds Michonne made spurred him on until his senses were filled with nothing but her. It was everything: her smell, her taste, the feel of her legs, and the panting, whining moans that were falling from her lips. She came apart in waves, writhing and squirming against his mouth and fingers. Rick held her until she came back down.

"You ok?" he questioned, wiping his mouth. He crawled up towards her and wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her against him.

"Yeah," she exhaled after a moment. She reached for him, and buried her head into his bare chest. "God, Rick," her lips tickled his skin as she spoke. "I'm so glad to see you."

He held her tighter, reaching up to stroke her long locs. "Me too, Chonne."

"I was having the worst day," she said. "The _worst_ day. I wanted to just run out the door, and call you, but I thought-" she swallowed. Rick rubbed her back, tucking his head against hers. "Then you turned up," she said, smiling against him.

"Work?" he asked sympathetically. He understood the sentiment.

She nodded. "And I was...thinking about us."

"Good things?" he ventured.

"Confusing things," she admitted. She tilted her face back to look at him. "I wanted to visit you. I figured we could talk."

He smiled at her. "We can talk over dinner tonight," he offered. "I want to hear about work, and your life, and what I've missed for a year."

She flushed a bit, looking pleased. "That's a lot to cover in one dinner," she observed.

"I'm hoping it's more than one," he said immediately. He kissed her again. She reciprocated eagerly, sighing against him.

"Ok," she agreed. Michonne stretched experimentally. "I'm not sure I can get off the couch though. My legs are numb."

"That good, huh?" he couldn't resist the urge to tease, not when his ego was running so hot.

She rolled her eyes. "I mean...you were ok." She began to laugh when he scowled at her. "I want to take care of you though," she rolled her hips against him.

Rick's mind went white for a moment, but he quickly regained sanity. "Let me take you out," he repeated.

"Are you sure?" she baited.

Rick sat up, taking Michonne with him. "I've been thinking about it since last summer. I'm sure, Michonne."

She smiled. "Alright," she moved closer to him. "Where did you have in mind?"

The restaurant Carl had picked on Yelp turned out to be pretty good. Michonne sat in the booth beside him, chatting lightly. Her hand never strayed far from him, bouncing between his palm and knee. Rick didn't mind. She could touch him wherever she wanted as long as she kept smiling at him like he'd hung the moon for her.

Dinner turned to dancing at a bar next door. The band onstage played covers of 80s power ballads, to the delight of the patrons. Rick seized the opportunity to hold Michonne close, rocking her to the rhythm.

"Have dinner with me this weekend," he requested. "Come see the new house." He flattened his palm against her lower back.

Michonne wrapped her arms around him, pressing her head into his shoulder. She began to laugh, lightly at first, then gaining speed. "The kids," she wet her lips nervously. "What do you think they'll say?"

Rick kissed her forehead then cheek in turn. "You know they love you," he reminded her. "Carl picked that restaurant."

Michonne laughed in surprise. "He did?"

Rick nodded. "Judith picked this shirt," he added. Michonne's giggles escalated. "I think maybe they knew before I did," he mused.

Michonne tilted her head curiously at him. "What did they know?"

Rick kissed her soundly in answer, public be damned.

Night had fallen by the time Rick reluctantly took Michonne back to her house. It was a nice space. Rick told her so as they crossed the threshold again. Michonne had decorated with plants, and colorful splashes of art. The flowers he'd brought her were nestled in a vase on her kitchen counter. Rick noticed her surfboards, hung on hooks above the couch. Nearby, a bulletin board sported hand-drawn pictures Rick recognized at once. He paused in front of them.

"They do a good job when they draw you," he observed, voice tight. Carl had rendered Michonne in colored pencil as a superhero, standing atop a building like Wonder Woman. Judith had drawn them all together, holding hands.

Michonne smiled. "I had to put them up," she explained sheepishly.

Rick stepped closer, noticing his birthday card pinned just behind them. He smiled as well. "They'll be happy when I tell them," Rick said.

"What do they think about the two of us?" Michonne asked, standing beside him. "What have you told them?"

"I know what I'd _like_ to tell them," Rick turned to her. He reached for her hand again. Michonne took it. "I figured I'd better talk to you though first."

"I can't believe you moved here," she shook her head. "You should have told me." She didn't sound upset, only shocked.

"Michonne," Rick pulled her closer. "It was something I needed to do. Kings County…" was full of ghosts. Rick wanted something new, something for his family. "We needed a change," he settled on. "Turns out you living here is a huge perk." He grinned crookedly at her.

She laughed, running her hands up his arms. "So now, what?"

Rick shrugged. "I'd like to go home and tell the kids we're dating. But we can wait. We can do what you want to do. I'm sure the babysitter won't mind watching them more nights. I'll drive up, take you out…" he slowed himself down. "We can get to know one another."

"No more late night phone calls?" she asked slyly.

"I'd be happy to make house calls," he wrapped his arms around her waist. "Just give me a few hours heads up."

Michonne stepped closer to him, leaning towards him. "Rick," she began, "are you sure?"

He held her close, slanting his mouth over hers until she parted her lips on a gasp. This time, Rick went slow, touching Michonne carefully until she was trembling.

"You have no idea how long I've wanted this," he whispered in her ear. Michonne clung to him.

"Me too," she admitted. "Can you stay the night?" she whispered.

Rick shook his head. "The babysitter is just for the evening." He felt regret for a moment. "I can pick you up though, this weekend."

She kissed his chin, then his nose. "Sounds good," she agreed.

It took an effort Rick wasn't sure he was capable of to untangle himself from around Michonne. It was worth it though when he kissed her goodbye, knowing he'd see her again soon.

As predicted, Carl and Judith were over the moon with the news.

"She's spending the night?" Judith screeched the next morning, nearly upending her cereal bowl. Rick stilled it, chuckling.

"She can have my room," Carl insisted at once. "I'll sleep on the couch."

"We have a spare room, remember?" Rick asked. It was filled with boxes now, things left to unpack. Rick privately thought it would be a cold day in hell before he let Michonne sleep in there alone, but the kids did not need to know that. Not yet.

The next few days were a blur of unpacking, decorating, cleaning up. Rick was exhausted, but exhilarated. It had been years since he had taken a risk, since he felt like he was at a beginning and not an ending. Perhaps Carl and Judith picked up on his energy, or perhaps they felt the same. Whatever the reason, the new house was filled with their laughter, with delighted shouts. Rick played music again, loudly, aware that their neighbors were far enough away, that the sound of the ocean in the distance would swallow the sound.

The house was nicer than the beach house had been, but still needed work. Rick took them to the hardware store and dutifully discussed colors, settling on bright yellow (Judith's suggestion) with dark blue trim and shutters (Carl's compromise). Painting was a pain in the ass, as was sanding, sweeping, wiping things down. The yard was a rough patch of sand and beach grass. They built a path out of flat river stones carted all the way from Kings County. Lori's picture was hung in the living room, on a wall of family photos. Rick was surprised to find that the sight of her face didn't hurt him as he expected it to. There was something comforting to it now, a reminder of the woman who'd given him the two best parts of his life.

Most nights they fell asleep on the couch together, the tv humming in the background, takeout containers sprawled against the glass coffee table. Rick supposed he ought to enforce that they sleep in their rooms, but he didn't bother. They wouldn't always be like this, wouldn't always want to be around him. He'd learned long ago to enjoy life's little pleasures when they came his way.

"She's here!" Carl's scream startled Rick the next morning. He was knee deep in unpacking the kitchen, stacking plates and dishes into the wooden cabinets. The living room at least no longer looked like a warzone, and most of the kid's stuff was put away. Rick's room was still a labyrinth of boxes.

The front door bounced against the frame as his kids tore out into the yard, watching eagerly as Michonne's car pulled up into the driveway. Rick followed them, sweating already in the humidity of the day, his hair disheveled, his brown shirt sticking to him. Michonne, by contrast, looked fresh as a daisy in shorts and a tank top, her hair swept up into a high ponytail.

"What are you doing here?" Rick asked her, amused. "We were going to come get you this evening."

She grinned at him as she got out of the car, pausing to hug Carl, then sweep Judith into her arms. "I took the day off," she explained. "I thought I'd come help you."

Unpacking did go faster with Michonne at his side, even with Judith and Carl underfoot. They showed her their bedrooms, the new backyard, the garage where Rick said they could store the surfboards they would buy. She smiled and exclaimed when necessary, holding both of their hands.

"Do you want to go surfing?" she asked them after lunch. She winked at Rick from across his dining room table.

Rick grinned back at her, following his cheering children out of the room.

The ocean felt amazing against his sore muscles, the sun high overhead. Carl was on his own board, tentatively navigating the waves by himself. Judith clung to Rick's hands as they rode the swells, giggling with delight. Rick enjoyed surfing, but it was the sight of Michonne, bright bikini and all, that set his heart racing.

He snuck a kiss while Carl and Judith paddled back to the beach. She tasted of saltwater. Rick didn't mind.

"Thanks for coming," he mumbled against her lips.

She pulled back from him with a giggle, looking nervously ahead. "Thanks for having me," she splashed at him. In seconds, she was back up, surfing away. Rick followed her with a grin.

There was no bonfire that night, but it didn't seem to bother anyone inside the house. Evening had given way to a summer rain, leaving them sequestered inside. It took much coaxing to get Carl and Judith to go to bed, even though both of them could barely hold their eyes open. They only went when Michonne stepped in with a bedtime story. The sound of her voice did the trick, lulling the pair to sleep within minutes. Rick carried Judith from Carl's room to her own, shutting their doors behind them. He turned to Michonne. She was standing behind him, dressed in sweatpants and his borrowed sweatshirt, her hair loose around her face.

She smiled at him, "What do you want to do for the rest of the night?" she asked innocently.

The last modicum of self-control that Rick possessed snapped. He caged her between his arms, backing her against the wall. Her breathing quickened at once, her eyes darkening as he rocked his body into hers.

"I'm taking you to bed," he told her, catching her around the hips.

She came without complaint. Rick locked the door behind him. He lowered Michonne to the mattress. She dragged him down on top of her.

"No interruptions this time?" she asked, nipping at his lips and neck in turn.

A rumbling groan escaped him. He pulled her hands above her head, pinning them. Outside the window, the rain began to slant down, splashing against the house. The sound was soothing, similar to the effect of the ocean's waves. Rick rolled his hips to the rhythm, listening as Michonne began to pant from the feel of him pressing against her.

"I need you to touch me," she begged, running her legs up his own.

Rick quickly complied, working her sweatpants off. She tugged his t-shirt over his head, pausing to pull at his damp curls. Their clothing hit the floor in a frantic pile, the humidity of the room making their skin slick as they groped at one another. She pressed kisses to his bare chest, licking and sucking until he groaned again. His mouth found her, first one nipple, then the other. He lavished attention on them until she was writhing against him, the evidence of her need dripping over his hand. He rubbed himself against her, listening to her gasp.

"Shit, 'Chonne," the nickname slipped out as her hand fisted him snuggly.

She pushed him back with a palm to her chest, crawling over his body. Rick had a fleeting impression of what she wanted to do, then her mouth was on him, and his mind went blank. He was thankful for the sounds of the rain as he started making plenty of noise himself. Her lips around him, her eyes on his face— it was all almost too much. Rick gritted his teeth to keep himself quiet.

Michonne moaned, clearly enjoying herself. Rick's body went tight as a bow. It took every bit of control he had to maintain his composure. The wet heat of her mouth and tongue was sublime torture.

"Fuck," the word slipped out, but it only encouraged her to move with more vigor. He pumped his hips towards her, unable to help himself. "Holy shit," he cursed again. "Look at you, Chonne...fuck." He swallowed thickly. "God, darling, you're going to kill me."

She smiled impishly, easing off of him. "Want me to keep going?" she whispered. She gripped him again, looking eager.

One part of Rick did, but the other part had waited far too long for this moment. Shaking his head, he seized her, pulling her flush atop him again. She moaned when his length pressed against her, teasing. He reached around her, cupping her ass. She fell forward into him, her nails scraping at her shoulders.

"You ready?" he whispered in her ear. She shivered.

"Yes," she gasped.

"Tell me what you want," he requested, long nights on the phone resurfacing.

She clung to him hard enough to hurt, sucking at his neck. "I need you," she begged directly into his ear. "I need you inside of me _now_."

Rick rolled her over, careful to catch his weight before he collided into her. A rumble of thunder disguised her cry of pleasure as he moved, pushing in until their hips met. He braced himself, lifting her leg, pulling out only to go deeper still.

"Shit," it was her cursing now, filthy words tumbling from her lips. "Oh fuck, Rick, baby-"

He silenced her with his mouth, afraid that someone might hear, that she might push him over the edge too quickly. His tongue mirrored the motion of his hips as he thrust in and out. She matched him, setting a frantic pace, chasing a release they'd both needed for a year.

"God, Michonne," he gasped against her neck. She felt like heaven, like they were meant to be together like this. In the back of his mind, he'd been afraid that it would be awkward, that it wouldn't live up to his expectations. The sinfully sweet crush of her around him made him feel foolish for even considering that possibility.

She pulled at his waist, dragging him deeper. Rick reached for her legs, hooking them higher. She muffled a pleasured scream against his shoulder, threatening to send Rick careening out of control.

"Come on, 'Chonne," he bent over to whisper in her ear, his hand stroking her for good measure. "Come for me."

He'd said these words dozens of times before, but the effect was instantaneous now. He stifled a loud groan against her skin as she pulled them both over the edge. She held him tightly, the storm picking up force outside. The house shook slightly, but Rick barely felt it. As far as he was concerned, the world began and ended with the woman beneath him.

They laid in silence for a moment, listening to the storm rage outside.

"Should I go to the guest room?" Michonne asked. "What if the kids get scared?"

Rick tightened his arms around Michonne. "You're not going anywhere," he teased, kissing at her neck. His hands began to wander across her slick skin.

"The kids—" she tried again, but her protest was half-hearted. She arched backwards into him, looping an arm over her head to hold him to her.

"-Are fine," Rick insisted. Judith's nightmares were few and far between now. "It's just you and me in here tonight." Michonne being in his arms was enough to get him going again. He stroked her, listening to her quiet moan. "I told you what I would do if I ever got you in bed."

Michonne shivered. "That's a lot to cover in one night," her familiar quip became a gasp when he pressed his length against her.

"Better get started then," Rick smiled, rolling her onto her stomach.

Michonne did slip from bed hours later, just before dawn. Rick reluctantly let her go, the logical part of him seeing the sense in talking to the kids first. He laid in bed staring at the ceiling, thinking about the woman just on the other side of the wall. On a whim, he reached for his phone.

"Just like old times, huh?"

He sent the message with a grin. In seconds, the phone buzzed.

"Almost," Michonne answered. "I'm a lot more sore now than I am at home."

Rick guffawed into his pillow. "I'd get used to it if I were you, Chonne."

The wink emoji came back in a blink. "I'm planning on it, old man."

Rick's bedroom door burst open as he grinned at his phone. Carl and Judith unceremoniously piled in.

"Is Michonne still here?" Judith asked, bouncing onto the mattress.

"Good morning to you too, Judes," Rick teased his daughter. "Did you check the guest room?"

Judith ran off without another word, a smile splitting her face. Carl was left standing beside the bed, wearing a puzzled expression.

"What's wrong, son?" Rick asked, sitting up.

Carl shook his head. "Nothing," he said. "I just kinda figured Michonne would be in here."

Rick started. Carl laughed. Rick hit him with a pillow. "Smart aleck," he scoffed.

Carl laughed harder, rushing from the room.

Rick followed, pausing to listen as his kids reached Michonne. Their mirth echoed even through the walls.

Smiling to himself, Rick joined them.


	9. Summer Vacation Conclusion

**A/N: That's all folks! Thank you for reading and please check out msdoomandgloom's art on tumblr and twitter **

* * *

Michonne supposed that someone somewhere might have been having a more depressing birthday, but she found it hard to focus on anything except the scope of her own despondence. It did not help that several milestones had been reached today, the conclusion of the first year of her 30s, the termination of a relationship that she'd never planned on ending, the first holiday in her new apartment.

And it was Valentine's Day.

She picked at a box of chalky, flavored chocolates, eating around the caramels and raspberry ones. The sugar sat heavily in her mouth, distracting her somewhat. Her friends had brought them over, along with a dozen white roses and a bottle of wine, birthday gifts for their newly single, 31-year-old lawyer friend. Michonne appreciated the gesture. She felt marginally better.

She popped the cork of her wine, stubbornly refusing to think about Mike as she went about heating up dinner for one. She could have gone out, she supposed, but she was in no mood to endure the lovey-dovey couples sure to be swarming the streets tonight. No; tonight was to be a night of quiet reflection, Netflix binging, and drinking alone.

She settled on the couch, glass in hand, plate on the coffee table, some documentary about serial killers playing on her modest flat screen. She wished she could say she was paying attention, but her traitorous mind had wandered back to Mike. It was amazing that a person could be habit-forming, even when they weren't particularly good for you. Still, at the beginning of their dalliance, Mike had been spontaneous, fun, adventurous. She'd come out of her shell, tried new things, wandered the streets with a huge smile on her face. Then years together erased many of the benefits, leaving resentment and drudging routine in their place. She was better off without him, they were better off apart, and Michonne knew it.

It didn't make this day any easier to endure.

Her phone found its way into her hand. Michonne thumbed through social media, liking photos of happy couples, answering birthday well-wishes, and sipping her wine. An advertisement caught her eye, one she would normally have scrolled right past.

"Tired of the cold?" it said. "Book a beach vacation!"

The beach. It held more appeal than she could possibly articulate. The beach was warm, calming, familiar. She hadn't been in years. She clicked it without thinking, looking through expensive packages to far-flung tropical locations.

She could use a vacation. Hell, she could use a whole summer break. She was willing to bet she had enough paid time off accumulated to support it. When was the last time she'd taken a trip, a real one, not a weekend in Savannah?

She navigated the web, following the thread of an impulse that she'd had too much wine to truly curb. Within an hour, she had a beach house booked for nearly two months, her credit card had a hefty charge, and a surfboard was in-transit to her house from some store way out in the boonies.

She'd always wanted to learn to surf. There was plenty that she'd wanted to do. It seemed high time that she started doing them.

Satisfied, she fell asleep on the couch, her glass empty, the TV flickering in the background.

-l-l-l-l-l-

Thank The box on her front step surprised Michonne when she arrived home. She toed it curiously, noting the handwritten return address.

Rick Grimes.

Her heart skipped a beat, the annoying habit it had taken up since she first encountered the southern single father on the beach last summer. She had hoped the effect he had on her would wear off, but thus far had no such luck. The sight of his name alone was enough to feel the echo of his lips on hers, the rough surface of his hands as he skillfully took her apart.

It was stupid, really. She was too old for this kind of infatuation, too old for such delusions. Michonne had done her best to move on, truly. She'd been on more than a handful of dates, had even started seeing a man. He was nice, attentive, and handsome enough. It didn't explain why she spent an inordinate amount of her time communicating with two adorable kids from King's County and their problematically attractive dad.

It was easier when she'd been angry at Rick, hurt and embarrassed. She didn't expect his sincere apology, the pain in his face as he stumbled through his explanation. It had been stupid to jump the gun, foolish to imagine that he was the kind of man who could put aside decades of history at the drop of a dime just because the two of them had a mutual attraction.

Michonne fully counted on Rick going back to his life, on things going back to normal. She didn't expect his calls and texts, the simple, sweet comfort of him checking in on her. She didn't count on what a good confidant he was, how funny he could be, the sorrowful way he watched her sometimes through the screen of her phone, as though there was a world of regret behind his eyes. She did not think that Rick Grimes might solidly take his place as one of her closest friends.

It did not much matter what she'd expected; the facts were that they talked every day, in some way or another. She could not be angry at him anymore. What was once largely physical attraction had deepened, until a day without hearing his voice seemed like a day largely wasted.

She tore the tape off the cardboard box as she brought it inside, sitting it on her coffee table. The drawings on the top made her smile, her own image rendered lovingly in colored pencil and crayon. Carl and Judith had wormed their way into her heart at once.

Michonne continued removing items, her grin widening at the candy bars, a cat stuffed animal, and a bottle of good cabernet. She wondered if Rick remembered that's what they drank the night they'd kissed, that the taste of that wine brought back a sensory memory that left her aching.

Pushing the bottle and those thoughts aside, she seized the last item, a nondescript red-envelope. It was a white Valentine's Day card with a red heart, cartoonishly simplistic. She opened it, expecting to see the kids' signatures, and perhaps Rick's.

The words inside stole the breath right from her lungs.

_Dear Michonne,_

He'd written her name in tidy, slanted scrawl, pressing heavily with the black pen.

_Happy Birthday! And Happy Valentine's Day! Convenient that two good holidays happen simultaneously. I'm sure you've seen the kids' gifts for you already, but I wanted to give you something that's just from me. _

_I never did have good timing, but considering the occasion, I thought it's best you know the truth. I think about you all the time, Michonne, and not just because you're a better friend than I deserve, or so loving to my children. I think about that night, about what I wish I had done. I should have kept right on kissing you, should have wrapped those long legs of yours around my waist, picked you up, and taken you to bed. I should have told you everything, everything you mean to me. _

_If I could be anywhere, it'd be back on the beach with you, chatting, holding your hand, watching the kids run around. It's you I want beside me, around me. It's you who I want to see first thing in the morning, the last voice I want to hear. It's you I want with me everywhere I go, you who I wish was in my bed every night. _

_I hope you have the birthday and Valentine's Day you deserve. I wish I could give it to you. _

_Yours,_

_Rick_

Her heart hammered in her ears as Michonne read the note through, once, twice, and then a third time. She could hear the twang of his accent in her mind, his breathless pants from that night months ago. A heat filled her, an all-too-familiar longing. She picked up her phone, dialing the number she'd memorized.

The kids answered. Michonne fixed a smile on her face, thanking them, listening to them sing to her. Rick's laugh came from somewhere in the background, stealing her breath again.

"Happy Birthday, Michonne," he drawled when his phone returned to him at last.

He looked a bit of a mess, to be honest, clearly home from a long day at work. His hair was disheveled, the curls fleeing the brushed back style he seemed to frequent, and a 5 o'clock shadow dusted his chin. Michonne flushed just to look at him.

"Thank you," she smiled, hoping she looked calmer than she felt. "I got your card."

Rick went scarlet at once, his blush unmistakable even through the screen. He stammered something that Michonne barely heard. Her mind was filled with possibilities, heart-felt desires she'd spent the better part of a year trying to quash.

The buzzing continued when Zeke called, driving Michonne to cancel their date, to the man's confusion. She felt bad, really, but there was no stopping it. If Rick could be honest with her, then she might as well be honest with herself.

She called Rick again, pulse racing, her damp hair hanging down her back, her pajamas brushing heated skin beneath cotton fabric. He picked up on the second ring. Her blood ran red-hot when she saw that he too was in bed, wearing not much more than a smile.

It escalated quickly from there, a hushed conversation leading to where she was now, namely laying back across her mattress, her phone balanced on the pillow next to her, her pajama pants kicked around her ankles, her hands wandering. She called to mind the feeling of Rick's calloused palms, the groan that escaped his lips when he'd dipped his fingers into her shorts.

He was making plenty of noise now, the sounds dropping from him unbidden. Michonne wished he was there, the heat of him pressed against her, his mouth crushed to hers. She bit back a moan, arching when Rick responded enthusiastically.

"Fuck, Michonne…" the filthy word sent a thrill through her. "Look at you. You're so damn beautiful. Been missing you so much-"

She gasped, not trusting herself to speak, barely able to think. Rick was undeterred.

"Let me see you," he requested, voice clipped. His hair was a mess, the curls mussed as he lay back against his headboard. His chest was flushed, and she was clearly not alone in touching herself.

She angled the camera down, gasping again as he responded to the sight.

"Jesus," he choked. "If I was there, Michonne-"

The thought thrilled her. Her imagination ran wild, sending heat flooding through her body. She squeezed her legs together, wishing that it was his hands on her. "What would you do?" she asked.

He inhaled sharply, looking tortured by the question. He set his phone down beside him, giving her a full view and his full attention. "First?" he asked, chest heaving as he drew in shaky breaths. "I think I'd taste you."

Rick had quite the list. Michonne barely got in a word edgewise, though she didn't much mind. She'd been fantasizing about him espousing his feelings for so long. His rumbling tone was enough to send her over the edge multiple times. She wondered afterwards if she should be worried about how quickly Rick Grimes managed to take her apart, or concerned that the two most shattering climaxes of her life had been delivered by him without him even entering her.

She supposed there was a lot she should be worried about when it came to her and Rick, but she couldn't bring herself to think about that now. She fell asleep beneath her covers, still naked, Rick's voice ringing in her ears.

-l-l-l-l-l-

They sank deeper into the sand, the blanket beneath them wrinkling as the couple writhed on top of it. In the distance, the sun was beginning to set, casting a glow across the empty beach. The ocean was no less beautiful in the winter, but decidedly more deserted, an opportunity that they eagerly seized upon.

Rick's skin was golden in the fading light, tracing against hers reverently, cutting paths up the curves of her calves, the slope of her thighs, the softness of her breasts. Michonne held tightly to him, nails scraping the smooth expanse of his back as he lavished her with open-mouthed, sucking kisses.

His hands found the negligible fabric of her bikini sliding beneath to cup her, drawing a loud moan from Michonne's mouth. He silenced her with another deep kiss, quickly divesting her of the little clothing that lay between them.

She tugged at the laces of his board shorts, working the knot loose. Rick's hands covered hers, assisting her with pushing them down his waist. The cool air swirled between them, chilly, save for their heated skin. Rick's mouth descended on hers again, desperate, almost rough. She eagerly responded, sighing against his lips.

The sound of her pleasure had the effect that it always did on her lover. He pulled back, grinning wickedly.

"Happy Birthday," he whispered into her ear, chuckling at the shiver that ran through her. He pulled her firmly beneath him, shielding her body with his own. She curled a leg up along his waist, gasping with delight when he hooked a hand around her hips.

"Happy Valentine's Day," her sentiment transformed into a moan as his fingers found her, teasing with light touches.

He pressed deeper when she hiked her legs higher, eager as always for his affections. Rick let out a throaty groan when he felt the heat of her.

"Damn Chonne," the words were a gravelly whisper. "You got something for me?"

In answer, she leaned up to kiss him, lacing a hand in his hair as she pulled him down more firmly on top of her. "It's my birthday," she panted against him. "You're supposed to give _me_ a present."

Rick laughed. His hand tightened around hers, their fingers latticed together against the worn cotton surface beneath them. "I've got a few things for you," he admitted. "Which present do you want first?"

A few feet away, a picnic basket sat in the sand, largely forgotten. Michonne was content to ignore it. She groped down the hard lines of his body until she could clutch him. His breath turned into a tortured hiss.

"This one," she answered, arching up.

Rick pressed himself against her, tantalizingly close. She was tempted to erase the modicum of space between them, but her lover had other plans. He held her hips down, teasing her. Michonne clutched his shoulders, her eyes squeezed shut, her lower lip caught between her teeth. Shuddering cries were escaping her as she wiggled her hips, her desperation increasing.

He gave in painfully slowly, easing in inch by inch while she moaned and writhed beneath him. When their hips met, he pulled backwards, gaining speed on his next thrust. Michonne braced her feet flat, meeting him movement for movement.

The waves beat rhythmically in the distance, in time with the delicious push and pull of their bodies. Rick kissed her again, his tongue keeping pace. A heat began to fill Michonne, rushing up her spine in delicious jolts of pleasure.

She tossed her head back, shaking as Rick released her to hook his hands beneath her hips.

"Is this what you wanted?" he asked, his voice low and clipped.

Michonne nodded frantically, panting moans escaping as she sought to answer him. "More," she begged, "baby, please-"

She didn't get a chance to finish as Rick's lips crashed down on hers once more. He pulled her legs higher still, leaning down to dive as deep as possible. Michonne's mind went numb, the whole of her consumed with him.

RIck slowed down, levering himself over her, giving her a moment to collect herself. Michonne ran her hands down his back, holding tight.

"I got you," he promised, brushing his lips against her cheek.

Michonne nodded. "I love you," she reminded him, tugging at his hair.

"I love you too," he affirmed, holding her closer still.

She'd missed him this week, missed the kids, the familiar comforts of a home that felt more and more like her own these days. Her apartment in the city seemed ions away, a past life that she was disconnecting from.

"I've got something else for you," Rick told her. He began leaning towards the picnic basket but soon became derailed as she tightened around him.

Michonne wrapped her legs around him, rolling them over so it was Rick sprawled beneath her on the blanket. "Oh yeah?" she asked.

He nodded, flushed, his hair an absolute wreck. His fingers dug into her ass as she settled on top of him, winding her hips in the way she knew he liked. "I've got to ask you something before I give it to you though," his voice was strained.

Michonne's heart skipped and her rhythm stuttered as she fell forward into him. "Rick…" she began, overcome.

He sat up, wrapping her in his arms, thrusting upwards until she was panting again. She fell over the edge, but this time he came with her, holding them both still until they returned to earth again.

"If you think we're ready," he ventured, his face pressed against her flushed skin, "I'd love to ask."

She leaned down to kiss him, cupping his face between both hands. "Ask me," she prompted, smiling at him.

Rick grinned back. "Chonne, will you marry me?"

Michonne pressed her forehead to his, her answer right on the tip of her tongue.

"Yes," she said.

-l-l-l-l-l-

The door to the Grimes' house burst open, admitting the members out and onto the sand. Carl came first, his long hair pulled into a sloppy nub, rushing on long legs towards the head high waves far off in the distance.

Judith was next, holding a board of her own, meandering more slowly, her eyes on the beach before her. She paused to pick up a shell before following her brother, her braided hair swinging.

"Mom!" She called behind her. "Are you coming?"

Michonne appeared on the porch, adjusting her bright purple swimsuit. "Hold on Judes," Michonne said back. "Your dad is coming too."

She turned to look back into the house, resting her hands on the gentle slope of a baby bump that seemed to be growing by the minute.

"You're sticking to the low swells today, right?" Rick asked, pulling the door shut behind him.

"I promise," Michonne kissed him. With a wink, she picked up her board and followed an expectant Judith.

"Alright," Rick mumbled to himself. He traipsed onto the sand on bouncy steps. The water was warm this morning, a blessing. He dipped his feet in, setting the surfboard down into the ocean. "You ready?" he asked.

The chubby toddler in Rick's arms scrambled down and tentatively into the surf. He began to laugh in delight as the waves licked at his tiny brown feet.

"Come on, RJ." Rick scooped his youngest son up, settling Rick Jr in front of him before paddling out.

Carl and Judith were already in motion, racing one another. Michonne was waiting in the shallows, bobbing serenely on her board.

"Hi mommy," RJ greeted, waving round little fingers.

"Be good on daddy's board, ok big boy?" She kissed their son then Rick in turn. She adjusted the straps of RJ's life jacket.

"You be good too," Rick cautioned his wife.

Michonne splashed at him before resting one hand on her belly. "You forgetting who taught you all to surf?" she challenged.

"Never," Rick paddled off with a grin, listening to Michonne's laugh and Carl and Judith whooping in the distance.

"Come on, RJ," Rick prompted. "Let's show off for mommy."

Rick took the delighted squeal he got in answer as agreement.


	10. All Hallow's Eve: The Hawthorne Sisters

**_New Orleans, April 25, 1862_**

A crimson sun rose over New Orleans, bathing the city in a garish light. Below in the streets, the gutters were flooded with miniature ruby rivers. Pools of gore gathered between the cobblestones, and the air was choked in sulfur. Those brave enough to venture outside of their homes shielded their faces, scurrying to and fro, gathering the dead, assisting the wounded. In the distance, on the river, the war machines bobbed, their guns pointed outward. Soldiers were gathered on the decks, their navy uniforms gleaming, weapons at the ready. Down below, the Confederate troops huddled, bolstering their forces.

On a balcony in the French Quarter, three women stood side by side, watching it all unfold.

"I don't think it can be avoided," the middle of the three mused. Beatrix's hand strayed to her necklace. She twirled the pendant between elegant brown fingers, her eyes following the path of ragtag group of soldiers.

"It's long past time," the youngest, Cecile, spoke, eyes flashing. "We should have made our move months ago."

"We don't interfere," Apolonia, the oldest, spoke sharply, her long braids swinging as she turned her head. "The future will be what it will be."

"With our help," Cecile countered. The wind ruffled through her thick mane of dark hair.

"The Union is on track to win without us," Apolonia pressed. "There is no need to expose us-"

Her words died in her throat as an explosion rocked downstairs, shaking the foundation of their building. The trio exchanged a glance.

"Looks like it has been decided for us," Beatrix observed, spinning on her heel.

In a line, they descended, skirts swirling as they rushed down the stairs. The halls of their ancestral home were filled. Bleeding soldiers stood in gray, faces grim, guns in hand as smoke clouded the air. Apolonia stepped forward, undaunted.

"How dare you?" she began, hands on her hips. "What need for this is there?"

A few cowered before her rage, but the bravest stepped forward, rifle cocked.

"Where is it?" he asked, voice trembling.

Beatrix and Cecile joined their sister, standing at her side. "Get out," the youngest threatened, her fists curling at her side.

"Your magic," the man pressed, turning the muzzle towards Cecile. "We ain't leaving without it."

The gun snapped back, striking the man full across his face. Apolonia's eyes narrowed. She moved closer.

"You will leave," every syllable was laced in venom, daring anyone to oppose her.

"We know you're witches!" Another soldier found his voice. He cocked his weapon as well. "And traitors besides. You would have the Union win! You'd see us down to dust."

His words bolstered the others. They drew tighter together, shifting nervously, their fingers twitching on the trigger.

"We'd see the Confederacy and all those who defend it to the gates of hell ourselves," Beatrix agreed serenely. "Would you care to go first?"

Behind the soldiers, the doors slammed shut, the bolts locking in place. With a gust like the wind, the lanterns extinguished, the flames guttering out. The red light of the sun bathed the lobby in an eerie glow.

Terrified, one of the soldiers fired. Gunpowder filled the air. None of the sisters moved an inch. Beatrix opened her palm, releasing the flattened bullet. It clattered to the ground. A moment of tense silence spread.

"Well," Cecile observed, smiling. "Shall we?"

As one, the trio raised their hands. The screaming began in earnest.

When the sisters had finished, the doors flew open once more, banging against the doorframe as though a hurricane raged inside. The limp forms of half a dozen soldiers spilled back out into the road, their bodies slumped, bruised, bleeding. Groaning, they crawled away, some still screaming, others shaking, all fleeing outright. Their fellow troops turned around in shock, eyes staring at the sisters crowded the doorway. They looked no worse for the wear, their clothing still immaculate, even as they rolled up their sleeves.

Apolonia sighed. "I suppose we must fight now," she exhaled, raising her hands again as the Confederates sprinted towards them, shouting.

'Witches!" they yelled, firing, screaming. "They're witches!"

"Obviously," Cecile huffed, throwing one man through the air. He landed in an undignified pile, screaming like a child for his mother.

"Suited them just fine when they were asking us for help," Beatrix scoffed, knocking a group flat to the ground.

"Traitors," another accused, stabbing out with his bayonet. With a thought, Apolonia melted it. The gun dissolved to ash in his hand with a touch of her finger, crumbling down to the wet cobblestones below. The man paled, falling to his knees, anger forgotten in lieu of fear.

"Leave," Apolonia demanded. "Or we won't be so merciful."

The soldiers froze, pausing. From among them, a deep voice began to laugh. One by one, every soldier's head turned, the path clearing hastily for their leader.

"Well Miss Hawthorne," the owner of the voice stepped forward, hands clasped behind his back. "That ain't very patriotic of you."

All three sisters' eyes narrowed.

"Phillip," Apolonia spat. "Why aren't I surprised?"

Governor Phillip Blake spread his hands, shrugging as though it were all inconsequential. His uniform gleamed in the red sunlight, unblemished though the fighting had raged through the night. Blake had lost none of his formalities in the wake of such brutality, right at home in the horror that was war.

"I tried reasoning with you ladies," he declared, loud enough for all to hear. "But that time is past now."

Behind him, his forces gathered, weapons at the ready.

"Reason?" Cecile's voice was little more than a growl. It hit Blake in the face like a whip, staggering him back a foot. "You call what you did reason?"

"You left me no choice," Blake recovered quickly. "All these fine folks, left to die in the streets because of your selfishness." He clicked his tongue, shaking his head. "I tried reason. I tried begging. I tried pleading. But now," his grin was mean, eager. "Now, we try it the hard way."

From above, someone gave a shout. The sisters looked up as one. A young boy was huddled on the balcony on which they had stood not half an hour ago. In his hand, he clutched a ruby bottle.

"I found it," he cried, holding it aloft. With a grunt, he cocked his hand back, throwing it towards Governor Blake. He caught it, uncorking it.

"No," Apolonia gasped, raising her hands again.

The soldiers crowded around their leader, forming a barrier. The sisters tossed them aside, fighting through, their blood pounding in their veins. It was all for naught. The light of the sun grew redder still, focusing like a beam on Governor Phillip Blake. He began to laugh again, a hysterical chilling sound, until even his protectors fell back, terrified.

"You have no idea what you've done," Beatrix crossed herself, drawing in a sharp breath.

"Run," Cecile instructed, turning to the soldiers, to the citizens peering out at them. "While you still can, RUN!"

Her plea fell on deaf ears, the ground crumbling beneath their feet. The Governor's rage became a palpable thing, all that was dark and cruel about him pouring out into the streets of New Orleans.

The Governor began to laugh again. This time his voice echoed against the brick, a crescendo growing louder by the moment. His soldiers slammed their hands against their ears, trembling in the wake of what they had just done.

The Hawthorne home began to move, bricks leaping from the walls to shatter on the street below. The boy on the balcony screamed in panic, the metal twisting beneath him like a great snake, scratching at him. Terrified, he lurched forward, plummeting to the ground.

Cecile caught him, delivering him safely to earth. Beatrix closed her eyes, pushing back, saving their home from collapsing. Apolonia shoved her way through the throng, meeting the Governor where he stood.

With a laugh, he blasted her back, hands glowing.

"That's more like it," he chuckled, watching as she crumpled to the dust.

With a scream, Beatrix ripped the balcony from their home, hurtling it at Phillip with all her might. It hit him like a cannon blast, sending him careening up the street. His soldiers fled after him, running like naughty children away from the scene of the crime. He did not stay down for long, standing again.

"That wasn't ladylike at all," the Governor called to them, voice echoing. He raised a hand, shaking the foundations of the Hawthorne home again. This time, the buildings on either side began to crumble, tumbling down on the trio of sisters. Beatrix and Cecile pressed outward, preventing them from being buried. The distraction bought the Governor the time he sought.

"We've got a war to win first, boys! To the river!" the Governor rallied, pointing in the distance.

His troops cried out, delighted by this turn of events. As one, they began their march, leaving the ruined Quarter behind them.

"Sister," Cecile helped the eldest to her feet. "Are you all right?"

Apolonia dusted her skirts, a look of grim determination on her face. "Come," she grabbed both of her sisters' hands. "It is time to end this."

They pursued the troops and their leader to the river, dogging their footsteps. Union forces had gathered on the decks. They were firing at will, but their bullets bounced harmlessly, dropping like flies. They pushed forward nonetheless, determined to overtake the city.

"Go boys!" The Governor cried out, pushing his troops ahead. "Show these Yankees to hell!"

"What are we going to do?" Beatrix asked her sister, eyes wide.

Apolonia looked on, calculating, her brow furrowed. "It will take all of our strength," she said quietly. "But we can put him down."

She looked round at her sisters, squeezing their hands.

"What are you going to do?" Cecile asked urgently, clinging to her.

"End this," Apolonia said simply. She smiled at the pair of them, bending to kiss each on their cheek.

"Apolonia, wait-" Beatrix tugged at her arm.

Apolonia stood anyway. "Cover me," she instructed.

Without another word, she spun, skirts swinging, and ran headlong into the fight.

Soldiers flew back as though she was made of dynamite, crumbling in her wake. Apolonia did not stop until she reached their leader, standing resplendent in all of his stolen glory.

"Miss Hawthorne," he grinned, "So nice to see you."

"I wish I could say the same," she responded. She reached for him, grabbing his face, slamming her eyes shut.

The Governor began to scream at once, a terrible pain seizing him. Apolonia trembled with the burden of it, but did not relent, holding tight.

"She needs help!" Cecile rushed to her aide, Beatrix at her heels. They cleared the path for Union soldiers, enlisting their help. Scores of men in blue flooded the shoreline, weapons raised, determined to take the city. The battle began in earnest, the Confederate forces crumbling like a house of cards.

"It's over now," Apolonia whispered, her face drawn. She drove the Governor to his knees in front of her.

"I'll end you," he cried out, bitter to the end. "Your whole line! You'll be nothing!"

With a smile, Apolonia bared down, her skin taking on an unearthly glow as the light faded from the Governor.

"Not if I end you first," she promised.

In a blast, the pair of them disappeared, opening up the ground beneath them like a crater. Soldiers screamed in fright, falling back, but two sisters rushed forward still, tears streaming down their faces.

"They're gone!" a Confederate soldier yelled, dropping his gun. The others took up the cry. The surrender went quickly, until the whole field had been cleared. The Union swept in, securing the city. 6,000 Confederate soldiers were captured that day. The North pressed upstream, winning Baton Rouge as well. The body of the Governor was never recovered.

The history books would call it a stunning victory, a triumph for the North. The remaining Hawthorne sisters knew better. The gathered the ashes in the field, of Apolonia and Phillip both. No spell could separate them, despite their best efforts.

"She bound him," Beatrix whispered in despair. "She bound him with her own life force."

Cecile, for her part, could say nothing. Her grief was too deep.

In the light of the next full moon, the sisters crept outside, erecting a mausoleum in their sister's honor. Here, they entombed Apolonia, the Governor with her, enchanting the space to preserve her forever. Her sisters visited her often, their daughters with them, and soon their daughters' daughters.

New Orleans forgot their sacrifice, but did not cease their fascination with the Hawthorne family, seeking spells and potions and solutions at the door at their leisure. The home became a hospital, then a boarding house in turn, guests coming and going, each whispering of the witches that lived there.

Beatrix's husband fell first, then Cecile's in quick succession. By the time the two sisters laid down to rest, their daughters were widows as well. Generation after generation met their end, joining those who had gone before them. But as the men died, the daughters thrived, overcoming and continuing no matter what the world conspired to throw at them.

The war ended, the world grew, the city changed, but the Hawthorne home stood tall in the French Quarter, its doors open to all those who needed help.

157 years later, its owner stood on the balcony that had once held her aunts, staring out over the city. She looked very much like the eldest, her features betraying her heritage, as all Hawthorne women before her. Now, her face was creased with worry.

She'd dreamed of the man again, the one who so often haunted her sleep. He was coming closer, of that much she was sure. The thought scared her, though she did not know why.

Over the city, the moon waxed, his bright edges trimmed in a crimson glow.


	11. All Hallow's Eve: Harvest Moon

**A/N: Strap in folks, because this one is going to be a pretty big collaboration! There's 15 chapters (at least), and art from msdoomandgloom to go with it. Check her out on twitter, tumblr, and IG, and see the story with art included on AO3.**

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* * *

**Early evening somewhere in the outskirts of Georgia, under the light of the waxing moon...**

"Mother fuckin' Merle Dixon!"

US Marshal Rick Grimes cursed alone in his car through gritted teeth. He jerked the steering wheel to avoid colliding with the nails littering the asphalt. His back tires caught despite his efforts, sending the car careening. It spiraled towards the railing lining the road around the quarry. Rick braced himself for impact, listening to the squelch of metal and the pop of airbags.

"This car was new," he bemoaned, throwing the door open. He removed his dark brown hat and tossed it onto the passenger seat, then unholstered his Colt Python, holding it at the ready. Around him, darkness permeated the forest, broken only by pale stripes of moonlight, stark against pitch black shadows. Rick stayed low, squinting into the night.

From not far off the back country Georgia road, a wheezing laugh filled the air.

"Losing your edge, Grimes," a gravelly voice goaded from somewhere among the trees.

Grimacing, Rick took aim, firing two shots into the darkness. He felt a grim sort of satisfaction when he heard Merle yelp, letting loose phrases that would make a sailor blush.

"Fuck you, Grimes, you coward!" Merle hissed. He shuffled around, causing a ruckus. "You'd shoot a man in the back?"

Truthfully, Rick would shoot Merle wherever he had to. He gathered his feet beneath him, rushing forward. Merle cursed again, taking off. Clods of dirt and moss flew as the criminal fled for all he was worth.

"You're making this harder on yourself, Dixon!" Rick shouted, navigating through the trees. "Give up!" Even with the glow of the waxing moon, Rick couldn't find a clear shot. He stumbled on a root, nearly tumbling to the unforgiving ground.

The laugh sounded again. "Fat chance, officer friendly."

A gun fired, the bullet whizzing near Rick's head. He ducked, dropping to the forest floor. The smell of damp earth filled his senses, rotting leaves and pine. There was something else there too, something far less fragrant. The stench of death turned Rick's stomach, sending rage coursing through him.

"Fuck," Rick whispered, pushing back to his feet. He cocked his Colt again, hugging the trees, crouching low. The scent grew unbearable, sickly sweet in the humid evening. He could hear Merle's labored breathing, the crunch of dried leaves as Dixon frantically sought to escape the law. Then, it all went silent save for a night wind rustling the tangled branches above him.

Rick maneuvered carefully, steadying himself. Acting on instinct, he began to cut a wide circle, angling himself to face the road. Merle had to have an exit strategy, some way to escape. From the smell of it, Rick had stumbled into his new dumping grounds. Eyes alert, Rick searched for trails, footprints, any sign of where Dixon could have slunk off to.

He found it in the form of a crimson stain, splattered on a moss covered stone. It was smeared, dragging off towards an outcropping of trees not far from the road. Rick exhaled, leveling the gun. A single shot rang out, whistling through the trees. The bullet struck home. Merle's scream of pain echoed. Rick stepped out, ready. He could see Merle in the distance, stumbling further into the woods. Rick fired again, striking Merle in the shoulder.

Merle fell upon the road, still crawling forward. Rick hastened after him.

"It's over," he called out, gun still aimed.

"You're gonna have to kill me, Grimes," Dixon spat, glancing over his shoulder. He dove suddenly into a bramble of bushes, fighting through the underbrush.

"No," Rick sprinted in earnest, determined to get to Merle. He was just feet away when something snagged hard around his ankles. Rick went down in an unceremonious pile, the iron-taste of blood filling his mouth.

From the other side of the brush, a truck engine started, sputtering as it roared to life. Rick kicked out, attempting to shake free the fishing line tangled around his legs. He stood in time to watch the truck rush out of the forest down a narrow path, knocking plants apart as it went. Rick raised his Colt, emptying it. The bullets bounced harmlessly off the steel bed. Rick chased it until his muscles burned, giving up only once the headlights were just pin pricks in the darkness.

In the distance, sirens sounded, drawing quickly closer. Rick limped to his useless car, trying to contain his frustration. Blood pooled in his socks, stemming out of the thin, deep cut from the fishing line. Rick cursed to himself, frustration mounting. The minutes it took backup to reach him felt like an eternity.

"He went east!" Rick shouted, pointing a dozen patrol vehicles up the road. They pursued hotly in the direction that Merle has disappeared. A black SUV came to a halt in front of Rick.

"What happened to waiting?" Captain Aaron Neville accused, scowling. His curly hair was mused from the wind whipping through the open window of his car, but he otherwise looked neat as a pin.

"You weren't moving fast enough," Rick grumbled, wincing as he kicked the fishing line off his jeans and to the ground. He scooped it as the team tore off into the forest, in search of evidence.

"So you got him then?" Aaron asked knowingly, stepping out of his vehicle. He straightened his dress pants, watching the scene unfold with critical eyes.

Rick sucked at his teeth, glaring off into the forest. "There's at least one body out there. Probably more." Many more, if Rick had to guess. Merle was nothing if not prolific.

"Shit," Aaron reached into the car for the radio, mumbling out a series of instructions. Around them, the once bare road filled quickly, forensics teams, patrol officers and more crowding around. Aaron sought off to meet them, mobilizing. "Check on him," Aaron instructed paramedics once they arrived, jerking a thumb towards Rick.

"Captain, I'm fine," Rick protested.

"Check on him," Aaron turned, reiterating. "You sit your ass down, Grimes."

Sullenly, Rick obeyed, lowering himself onto the back bumper of an ambulance.

"Could you turn the light off at least?" Rick squinted in the crimson and white beams. "Hurts my head." Though he was law enforcement, he disliked the sight of emergency lights immensely.

"Sure," the paramedic blinked at him in surprise. Rick did his best not to grouse as they poked and prodded, checking him for injuries.

"I just need a bandaid," he assured them, biting his tongue.

They ignored him, continuing their work. Ten minutes dragged by, then twenty, then a half hour. Rick grew increasingly more restless.

"You satisfied that I'm fine?" he asked tersely, waving away a blanket. "You gonna let me stand up?"

Rolling their eyes, the paramedics retreated. Rick stood, wandering around the ambulance to look up the street. His captain was coming up the road on foot, red in the face.

"You know, that was new," Aaron returned, jutting his chin in the direction of what remained of Rick's car. It was smoking, the windows cracked, the back bumper lying flat on the street.

"Collateral damage," Rick shrugged. "Did they get him?" he asked eagerly, pacing.

Aaron shook his head, his veneer of calm cracking for the first time. "They're still in pursuit," he reported. "We're shutting down exits."

"You gonna block off every freeway in Georgia?" Rick scoffed. He swallowed another curse. "How many bodies?" he asked.

"Four," Aaron sighed. "So far." He glanced off into the forest. It was fully dark now, the only light coming from the beams of flashlights and the continuing spiral of emergency vehicle sirens.

"Shit," Rick looked back up the road. He shuffled, looking as though he had half a mind to take off running.

"What the hell happened?" Aaron asked.

"He got away." Rick wanted to scream. "Again." He threw the door to his smoldering car open, reaching in for his hat. He shoved it back on his wild coif almost violently.

"We'll get him," Aaron patted Rick on the back, bracingly attempting to placate his friend. "Come in, debrief. We'll get our game plan together."

"Doesn't he have people nearby?" Rick asked, wheels turning. "Somewhere in the South?"

"Brother in Louisiana," Aaron confirmed. "But he doesn't want anything to do with him."

"Doesn't mean Merle won't go running to him. I hit him," Rick gestured to his now-empty gun. "I know I did."

"Then maybe he won't last long," Aaron mused.

"Let me go get him," Rick stepped towards his captain.

"Grimes…" Aaron did not look at all surprised. "He's armed. You're bleeding, you're filthy, you wrecked the damn car-"

"It's been months," Rick implored. "Let me end it."

Aaron paused, fixing Rick with a hard gaze. "Rick," he began, voice heavy. "It's been longer than months. It's going on years now."

Rick swallowed, looking away. "What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about the night your wife died," Aaron pulled no punches. "I'm talking about this obsession."

"It ain't an obsession," Rick protested.

"Damn near is," Aaron countered. "I understand, truly I do-"

"You don't," Rick's voice took on a sharp edge. He softened it, drawing in a shaky breath, and stared instead at the tips of his boots. "I wasn't there. And it was this bastards fault." Rick turned away, staring back into the woods.

"He didn't kill her, Rick," Aaron whispered.

"But he's the reason I wasn't there," Rick wiped his face, composing himself. He suddenly felt tired, drained. He forced the feeling down.

Aaron began again. "Rick this isn't healthy. You started spiraling when we were partners. You stopped focusing on everything else. We would both be captains if—" he broke off, crossing his arms, perhaps thinking better of it. "I'm worried about you."

Rick chuckled wryly. "That your professional opinion?"

"It's my friend opinion. Rick…"

Rick shook his head. "Captain, you gotta let me finish this." He turned back to his friend, imploring. "When it's done, I'll come back. I'll go to the shrink. I'll talk about my feelings. Hell, I'll take the captain's test again if it helps you sleep at night."

"It's not about me, Rick," Aaron sighed.

"No," Rick agreed. "It's about stopping a killer."

Aaron narrowed his eyes. A terse silence hung between them for a beat. "You've got a week," he said. "You check in every day. You let the local authorities know that you're coming."

"I will," Rick nodded, already in motion. "I need a car."

"You need more than that," Aaron snorted. Still, he tossed Rick his keys. "Be safe, Grimes."

"I will," Rick rushed for the SUV.

"And Grimes!" Aaron called after him. Rick paused as he punched the keys into the ignition.

"Yeah, boss?" he asked.

"Bring the bastard in," Aaron instructed.

"Will do," Rick threw the car in gear, peeling up the road.

-l-l-l-l-l-

**The following night in New Orleans...**

"Maggie, I gotta tell you, I kind of hate this," Glenn bemoaned, trailing after his girlfriend.

The young brunette woman turned green eyes on her lover, offering him a mischievous grin. "What's there to be nervous about?" she questioned.

Glenn cut his almond-shaped brown eyes at her, sighing. "I don't know babe," he feigned ignorance. "Maybe it's the fact that we're walking towards a graveyard. Maybe it's the full moon," he listed. "Or maybe it's because we're breaking into a graveyard."

"Well for one," Maggie countered, reaching backwards for his hand. "There's nothing to be afraid of when it comes to the dead. And for two, we'd be stupid to waste a harvest moon. And three," she touched the chained fence surrounding St. Louis Cemetery, "We're not breaking in. It's unlocked." The heavy chains and lock fell to the ground with a clang.

"Maggie, seriously," Glenn pressed, looking nervously around. "Someone could see." He shoved his ebon hair out of his face, pulling the brim of his cap up to better see.

"There's no one here," she rolled her eyes.

"That truck-"

"Is empty," she argued. "Looks beat to hell too. Bet it hasn't run in years."

Glenn stared at it, still unsettled. "I think we should at least call-"

"No," Maggie answered sharply. At Glenn's raised eyebrows, she amended. "It's just… she does everything for us, Glenn. Everything."

Glenn paused. "I know," he acknowledged quietly.

Maggie reached for his hand, running her thumb along the back. "She's got this huge thing hanging over her head. She deserves to live without it."

"Maggie," Glenn began gently. "If generations of her family couldn't break the curse, what makes you think we can?"

Maggie swallowed, her eyes turning to the towering wall of rotting brick. "I checked the book. Read every page. It has something to do with this place. I have to try, Glenn. I can't not try."

They both stood in the darkness, clinging to each other.

"Alright," Glenn agreed, lacing his fingers with Maggie's.

They walked through the gate, pulling it shut behind them. It was silent among the tombs, their footsteps echoing off the ancient marble and stone. Maggie conjured a small orb of light between her palms, walking cautiously. Glenn kept his hand on her back.

"We're looking for the family tomb," Maggie whispered.

"It's this way," Glenn redirected her. He'd been to this tomb many times, firstly clinging to Mrs. Hawthorne's skirts, and then in the shadow of her daughter Michonne. He knew it like the back of his hand.

The tomb was simple, unadorned, save for a wreath of roses on the entrance that never seemed to wither. The white petals caught the light from Maggie's hands and reflected it back. Maggie gasped.

"I've never seen it," she breathed.

Glenn stepped forward, his smile bittersweet. "I've seen it plenty. White roses were Mrs. Hawthorne's favorites." He tapped the petals. They winked open and closed at him.

Maggie gaped. "Maybe it should be you," she suggested. "You knew her. You loved her."

"She was my mom," Glenn agreed. "Or good as."

"So she'll talk to you," Maggie guessed. She removed the small bag tossed over her shoulder, handing it to her boyfriend.

"Maybe," Glenn accepted it. He removed a small sliver of crimson chalk. "Help me draw the circle," he requested.

Maggie dutifully traced out the symbols, setting the short white candles out. With a wink, Glenn lit them. The stuttering flames cast dancing shadows on the walls of the tomb. The wreath of roses seemed to shrink away from them.

Glenn sat, folding his legs beneath him. Maggie began to mumble in latin, a familiar chant. Glenn opened his mouth to add his voice to hers. The temperature around them plummeted, cold even for an autumn night. Glenn shivered, his eyes snapping open.

"What the hell?" he whispered.

"Mrs Hawthorne?" Maggie questioned, opening one eye hopefully. "Are you there?"

Silence was her answer.

"Mama Vangie?" Glenn hazarded a try, conjuring up the image of the woman he missed so much. "Is that you?"

The candles around them went out in a sudden rush, plunging them into darkness.

"Glenn," Maggie stammered. "Something's wrong. She should be talking to us by now."

Silence was their only answer. Dread began to fill Glenn.

"This isn't her," he said, heart racing. "Whatever this is, it isn't her."

He reached over, snuffing out the candles in one whoosh of air. They reignited immediately.

"Oh shit," Maggie grew frantic as well. "Glenn…" she reached beside her, wiping the crimson chalk with a flattened palm. It began to smear, the powder transforming into a viscous liquid of the same color. Maggie raised her blood-splattered hand, horrified.

Around them, the candles became tall pillars of flame, roaring to life and singeing the two young adults in the center. The remainder of the chalk ran in rivers, pooling and moving towards them.

"Shit, Mags," Glenn began to tug her away. She dug her heels in, still looking at the mausoleum.

"We have to stop it, Glenn," she protested. "There has to be a spell, any spell-"

Her words died as a laugh sounded, cruel and rolling and undeniably male. It echoed against the marble and concrete, chilling the couple to the bone. The stones around them began to shake, as though their occupants were waking up.

Glenn began to chant, eyes slammed shut, hand twisted around Maggie's. She too began her spell, yelling to be heard over the whip of the winds, and the villainous laugh. It died in a moment, the candles extinguishing, the blood absorbing into the ground.

"Did it work?" Maggie asked cautiously.

The doors to the Hawthorne mausoleum flew open with a bang. Inside, dark shapes were moving, gathering, waking up.

"Glenn," someone croaked, a cruel facade of a once-familiar voice. "Glenn…"

Glenn went pale, stumbling back. He tossed a hand out, slamming the door back shut. It rattled, shaking wildly. The screams of its occupants rose up in earnest, generations of women, all calling out.

"Glenn!" a voice yelled, feminine and commanding. "Get out!"

He edged closer, torn. Maggie seized his hand, pulling him back to reality.

"We need to run!" she shouted.

The laughter came again, but this time crescendoed, almost as though it were chasing them. Glenn and Maggie tore out of the cemetery and onto the darkened road, bricks and marble shattering behind them. Maggie turned, throwing her hands out. The gates shut, the chain wrapping itself back into place.

At once it was silent. They stood panting, holding one another across the street. Overhead, the harvest moon now emitted a pale, crimson stained glow.

"Let's go," Glenn said firmly, his stride not breaking as they continued up the street. He was trembling despite his conviction, all color lost from his cheeks.

Maggie did not protest.

In the midst of the circle they left behind, a man materialized, gaining form until he stood solid. He was tall, imposing, dressed in Confederate Gray, his uniform outdated by centuries. He watched the couple disappear up the street, but did not pursue. Instead, he glanced down, kicking at the candles until he revealed the tiny sliver of crimson chalk.

"Well ain't that convenient," he grinned wickedly, popping his neck.

The winds around him howled, throwing the gates open as the reawakened headed out into the New Orleans.


	12. All Hallow's Eve: Hotel Hawthorne

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* * *

The Hotel Hawthorne sat just a few blocks away from Bourbon Street, an unassuming jewel in the crown that was the French Quarter. With red brick, iron balconies, and ivory creeping up the sides, it cut a picturesque, if not glamorous impression for over a hundred years. It was not perhaps the fanciest of accommodations, but it was the most infamous. The hotel had been run by Hawthorne women for a century and a half. And if a person knew anything about New Orleans, they knew that there was something off with the Hawthorne women.

Not that anyone would dare say so to their face. They were a beautiful group, generations of stunning, educated women, dark and lovely and powerful to boot. They controlled their own destiny, securing their fortune generations before their kinsmen secured their freedom. The Hotel Hawthorne was a symbol of their prosperity, a safe haven. Thousands flocked to the power within its walls over the years, seeking cures, seeking advice, seeking solutions. There was nothing that the Hawthornes could not do for you- so long as they did not love you.

There is debate as to when it all began, but tragedy haunted the female members of this family. It was natural that women of such stature and beauty would attract their fair share of suitors. What was unnatural was the lifespan of such suitors. Since the Civil War at least, the men who loved Hawthorne women met untimely and often violent ends. Generations had been raised without fathers. The current owner of the hotel was no exception.

Michonne Hawthorne did her best not to dwell on curses, men, or tragedy. Her life had been colored thus far with enough of that, and frankly, she was tired of it. There were far more pressing concerns to occupy her time. She had a garden to tend, a library to catalogue, guests to accommodate, a life to live. And while she was well-loved by nearly all who crossed her path, she maintained a certain mystical aura about her. Michonne, in all her beauty and all of her intelligence and resourcefulness, was not a woman to be trifled with. Few attempted it, and fewer still went unscathed when they did.

The morning after October's Harvest Moon, Michonne woke as she normally did, rising before the sun. The ancient sidewalks of the French Quarter whizzed by beneath her feet as she ran, heart pounding, hair streaming, lungs burning. Fall was in full swing in New Orleans, the humidity giving way to chilly air and cool breezes. Locals were up already, preparing for the day, brewing coffee, heating oil, kneading dough for beignets. The tourists were inside, or stumbling back to their rooms, nursing headaches sure to keep them laid up until noon. It suited Michonne just fine. In the silence of the morning, she had room to think, and she was in desperate need of thinking.

It had begun with a dream, a reoccuring episode that now spanned weeks. Something was stirring beneath the soil in New Orleans, something that might soon require her attention. She could feel it as surely as the beating of her own heart. All of the signs were there. The pale moon, the red dawn, an aura of unease.

Something was coming and she intended to be ready.

"Morning, Lou," she slowed her steps, coming to a stop in front of a familiar vegetable stand.

"Michonne," the shop owner greeted her with a wide, toothy smile, his Cajun accent coloring every syllable of her name. "What brings you out this morning, chere?"

"I have the herbs you wanted," she reached back for her little backpack, extracting a nondescript paper bag. "I put the instructions in there for you."

Lou's brown eyes widened, his grin spreading ever more. "My wife is gonna be grateful," he shook her hand warmly. "We ain't got a wink of sleep since the baby started coughing."

Michonne handed him the package. "A little in his milk, and there's a salve there to rub on his chest. He should be breathing clear in no time."

"Don't know how I could thank you," Lou looked suddenly teary eyed. Michonne held up a hand.

"Maggie's been wanting to bake a pie," she smiled, holding up a dew dollars. "Could I get first pick of the apples?"

"Of course," Lou rushed to secure her a bag, "Take any you want." He handed it over. "And these are for you. Vangie insisted. Says there you're favorites." He extended three large pomegranates, ruby red and beautiful.

"You don't need to," Michonne objected.

"Won't take no for an answer," Lou foisted the fruit on her, refusing to accept the money. "You tell Maggie to bring by a slice of that pie. We'll call it even."

Michonne accepted the gift, tucking it all away. "Will do, Lou. You have a good day."

"You too, chere," Lou winked. "Don't go breaking any hearts out there, now."

With a laugh, Michonne continued on her run. Her bag grew heavier as she made her way back from the river, stopping at the stalls that dotted the streets. She passed a pawn shop of sorts, not much more than a table ladened in secondhand clothing. A stack of men's shirts caught her eye.

A dark brown blazer was on top. She recognized it from her dreams. She laid her hand on them, trying to discern more, wondering why she felt such a pull towards them.

"$20 for the pile?" she asked the vendor, rifling through a few shirts, a tan jacket, and a pair of dark washed jeans.

She carried these home along with the food, enjoying the coral color quality of the sky. The horizon was tinged in red though, an ominous warning. Something was coming for sure.

"Morning," the bell rang on the front door as she stepped in, her locs brushing her back even in their high ponytail. Glenn and Maggie were seated behind the desk, talking in low tones. The couple, normally bright-eyed and bushy tailed, had a distinctly harried look to them this morning. Glenn's face bore the beginnings of a dark goatee, and Maggie's curly hair was mussed.

"Morning," they greeted in unison, jumping apart like naughty children caught in the middle of mischief.

Michonne watched them. "Long night?" She hazarded.

"Full moon," Maggie explained while Glenn went oddly blotchy. "Wanted to celebrate it."

Michonne stared them down. "What'd you do?"

"Nothing," Glenn blurted.

"Drinking," Maggie said in the same breath.

Michonne held in a sigh. "We'll discuss it later. She set her bags down. "Glenn, get the coffee started. Maggie, I need you to check the books. Halloween means a full house."

They nodded eagerly, leaping to their feet. "What's this?" Glenn paused from gathering groceries to look at the clothes.

"That's mine," Michonne said lightly, plucking them from his hands. "These too," she took the pomegranates. "Maggie, those are your apples."

"More?" Maggie asked, eyebrows jumping. "Aren't we trying to get rid of apples?"

"Lou sends his compliments," Michonne grinned. "Maybe whip up a few pies." She hefted the clothing into her arms, drawing another curious look from Glenn.

"Not quite your style," Glenn observed, hurrying away with the groceries.

"There's a room open," Maggie glanced up from the ledger. "Did you want me to fill it?"

Michonne shook her head. "Someone will fill it soon enough," she said, shooing Maggie off to her work.

She took advantage of the last quiet moment of her morning, heading out back to her garden. The trees and plants here were ladened, bearing fruit and vegetables that any farmer would be jealous of. Michonne paused to check her roses before continuing on. She found a narrow patch of rich dark soil among her lemon trees. Kneeling, Michonne selected the ripest of the fruit. She easily dug a hole, lowering the pomegranate into it and covered it again. Before she'd managed to stand up and turn around, a tree took root, heavy with ripe, ruby pomegranates by the dozen.

The other two went into the bowl on her desk. Michonne sat the clothing beside it, attempting to call up the image of the man in her dreams.

He was coming, of that she was sure. She only hoped he'd bring good news with him.

-l-l-l-l-l-

"Well he ain't disappeared," Rick protested, following the sergeant around the precinct office. "He's bleeding to death somewhere."

"Marshal Grimes, we know," Sergeant Sasha Williams was at her wits end with him. "And we're looking."

"You got any leads?" He pressed.

"His truck was found by St. Louis Cemetery 1," she recounted, trying for patience and not quite succeeding. "We brought it in as evidence."

"And you searched the cemetery?" Rick asked.

"Obviously, Marshal. We aren't federal agents, but I assure you, we know what we're doing." She cut dark eyes at him, daring him to press her further.

Rick softened his tone. "Could I see the file?"

Satisfied, Sergeant Williams nodded. "The security footage too. Some kids were seen in the area. Probably a harmless prank. The gates of the cemetery stayed locked all night. We know he's got a brother, but the youngest Dixon is in jail for a possession charge. He won't be getting help there for 3 to 6 months. We think he might have stolen a car, but nothing's come up yet."

Rick nodded, accepting a thumb drive from her. "Thanks for your help," he said.

"Go get some rest. Clean up. We'll let you know if anything turns up." Her eyes darted over his ensemble.

Rick had driven through the night and half a morning, arriving in New Orleans on Merle's tail. He was still mud splattered, red with blood on his pants leg. His beard had long since gone past regulation, the graying hair curling at the ends. Rick smoothed a hand through his coif, attempting to push it back in order.

"I'll be back this afternoon," he told her.

"Looking forward to it," Sergeant Williams moved off. "Might be some accommodations left in the Quarter if you go now."

Rick walked back to his SUV, plugging the thumb drive into the car's laptop before he even shut the door. He rifled through the reports, growing frustrated. Navigating to a video, Rick opened the security footage.

Merle had arrived at nearly three this morning. Slamming his best up truck against the curb. Rick watched in satisfaction as the killer nearly fell out of the driver's seat, stumbling away and into the darkness.

Restless, Rick fast forwarded, looking for anything that could help. It was less than an hour later, according to the film's time stamp, that he saw the two kids Sergeant Williams mentioned.

Rick squinted, watching as the young woman on screen dragged a reluctant man along with her. He paused it, attempting to memorize their features.

"What were you two doing?" He mused aloud. He pressed play again, watching as they approached the fence.

The video went black in a blink. Rick clicked the mouse, disbelieving.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me," he sputtered. He attempted to navigate further, but the file was corrupted. He had half a mind to march into the precinct again when his phone rang.

"Did you sleep?" Aaron asked immediately.

"No. I'm looking at evidence," Rick reported. A yawn split his face, but he quickly quelled it.

"I know. I got a call from a Sergeant you already managed to piss off. She says you look like shit."

"It ain't that bad," Rick glanced at himself in the rear view mirror, wincing.

"Really?" Aaron asked sardonically. "Stop angering the locals. Get a room. Take a shower. Take a nap. Report back when you've done that."

"Captain I'm fine," Rick protested.

"You aren't walking around disgracing the Marshals. You do this by the book, Grimes. Don't let me get another call about you. And shave."

He hung up without another word.

Rick tossed his phone into the passenger's seat, starting the ignition. Loathe though he was to admit it, he was in desperate need of sleep. His brain was fuzzy, his body exhausted. He maneuvered his vehicle away from the precinct and headed towards the French Quarter. New Orleans was coming to life, tourists streaming into the city. Rick navigated the roads aimlessly, staring into the faces of every passerby, searching for Merle.

Driving in the Quarter was an exercise in frustration. Tourists darted in and out of the streets, dressed for the holiday, drinking already. Rick groaned, waving them out of the way. Looking at the signs for hotel after hotel, Rick had half a mind to pick the first one he saw with a vacancy.

Instead, he spotted a woman on the corner, staring down the street like she was waiting for something. His eyes strayed to her, taking in her waist long locs, affixed with metal trinkets, and her black lace dress. For a moment, he wondered if she too was in costume. Her hair was piled to the side in a loose plait, her feet adorned in ebon ankle boots. She looked stunning. He wanted a closer view of her face. Her elegant chin was tilted, her full lips pursed, dark eyes staring out into the street.

A blaring horn brought Rick back to reality. He cursed, moving forward, aware that the woman was now looking at him. She smiled, waving slender dark fingers ladened with rings. Without a word, she turned on her heel, heading into the front door of a hotel.

"Hotel Hawthorne," he read the sign outloud, contemplating. Within seconds, he'd decided. Rick jerked the steering wheel, pulling into a parking garage. This was as good a place to sleep as any. Checking his reflection, he left the SUV, taking his laptop and his hat with him.

He'd stayed at hundreds of hotels during his time as a Marshal, but none quite so interesting at this. The Hotel Hawthorne had marble flooring, graceful columns, and a lobby packed to bursting. It looked less a hotel and more an antique shop. Art and photographs in ancient mix-matched frames hung from the walls. There were overstuffed chairs and hand-carved coffee tables, books stacked upon every surface. Whoever was the caretaker here must have had quite the green thumb. Not only was the outside brick covered in ivy, but the inside had plants by the dozen. An aging baby grand piano was pushed into one corner. It must have been electric because it was playing a rendition of Clare de Lune. The music echoed, filling the crowded space. It was soothing, comforting. Rick felt marginally relaxed for the first time in weeks.

He looked around as he walked, his shoes clicking against the hard floor. A black streak caught his eye, running across the tiled ground for the grand staircase. Rick watched the cat run away, heading up the stairs with casual familiarity. For a moment, he wondered if he'd come into the wrong place by mistake. Then a voice called out, rich and sweet like honey.

"Welcome to Hotel Hawthorne," the woman from the street greeted. "How can I help you?"

Rick started, pausing. She was more stunning by far up close. She fit right in with the decor here. "I'm…" he wet his lips. "I'm looking for a room."

"Then you're in luck," she smiled. "I think we've got just what you're looking for."


	13. All Hallow's Eve: US Marshal Grimes

**If you want to enhance your reading experience, please checkout the playlist for chapters 1-4 on Spotify**

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* * *

"This will be your room," Michonne pushed the door open, holding it for US Marshal Rick Grimes to step through. He paused at the threshold, reaching over her head.

"After you,' he gestured, offering her a lopsided grin. His eyes crinkled at the corners, a becoming look, despite his almost slovenly appearance. Perhaps in his day to day, Marshal Grimes was handsome, but he'd clearly had a rough night.

Michonne laughed, shaking her head. "This is for you, Marshal," she reminded him. "I have my own room."

He flushed, a delightful blush creeping up his neck. "Sorry," he apologized in his heavy southern accent. He was without the musical lilt often found in the Quarter. His syllables were colored with something rougher, something further east. "I need sleep."

"Well, this is the perfect place for that," Michonne gestured to the four poster bed. "Should be quiet, with the door and window closed. You can open it, if you want a breeze."

Rick looked around, nodding absently. He toyed with the hat in his hands, bending the soft leather brim. Michonne took another moment to watch him. In her dreams, she'd only gotten impressions of the man, like looking at a person through a cloudy window. She hadn't expected him.

"Well," he turned back to her, mustering another tired smile. "Thanks for showing me up here. It's a miracle you had one room left."

"Lucky you," Michonne nodded. "Do you have any luggage?"

The blush began again, along with a gravelly kind of stammer. "Uh. Not at the moment."

"You're staying for a week?" Michonne arched a brow, watching as his face creased. She had no doubt that in the best of times, Marshal Grimes would have had a much quicker response. Something was weighing on him, something she was willing to bet had contributed to the blood and mud splattering his suit, and the bags beneath his eyes.

"I'll pick something up," he assured her, stepping into the room. "Where's a good place to eat up here?" he asked.

"Plenty of places," Michonne leaned against the doorframe. "But if you want something really good, I suggest you eat here."

"Is that so?" he tilted his head at her, sucking at his teeth. "That's your unbiased opinion?"

She smiled. "That's the truth," she said simply.

"All right," Rick nodded. "I'm gonna clean up, take a nap. Then I'll come on down." He seemed at last to register his appearance.

"No need," Michonne stepped backwards, into the hallway. "I'll have something sent up."

"You know the boss or something?" Rick asked, chuckling. "Got connections?"

"Well, Marshal Grimes," she mirrored him, laughing lightly. "Being Michonne Hawthorne has its perks."

"I bet it does." She'd surprised him with that, that much was obvious. He looked almost impressed. "Thanks for giving me the VIP tour, Mrs. Hawthorne."

"It's Miss," she informed him. "And please call me Michonne. Get some rest, Marshal Grimes."

"Call me Rick," he told her, extending a hand.

She reached for it. The moment their palms touched, something like a spark passed between them. It ran up her arm like an electric shock. Michonne did her best not to gasp. Hastily, she relaxed her hand. Rick held fast.

"Nice to meet you Rick," Michonne said, praying her voice didn't sound as breathless as she felt.

"Nice to meet you too," he grinned. All debate of whether or not he was handsome fled her mind.

Michonne pulled her hand back, spinning on her heel. It was all she could do to not run from the room. She exited, nearly sighing in relief at the sight of the black cat staring curiously at her from the hall. Eager for a distraction, she bent, scooping Virgil off the ground and tucking him beneath her arm.

"Cute cat," Rick called out, smiling amusedly from his doorway. His grin widened when he caught her eye.

"Thanks," she responded. "He's kind of a brat." As though to illustrate her point, Virgil kicked free, spiraling gracefully to the ground before streaking down the hall, away towards Michonne's rooms.

Rick only laughed. Michonne waved again, flushed, before moving down the stairs. Maggie was at the base, staring up with interest.

"Who was that?" she whispered excitedly. "Was that who you were saving room for?"

"Who said I was saving a room?" Michonne asked in turn, calming herself to walk back through the lobby. Maggie dogged her footsteps, unfooled. The girl was too perceptive by far.

"He's handsome," she smiled conspiratorially. "I mean, a little bit of a mess, but," she shrugged. "Handsome."

"He is," Michonne agreed easily, heading for the kitchen. She did not mind the sight of his dimpled cheeks, the blue of his eyes, or even his messy hair one bit. Even his hand, calloused and rough though it may have been, had proved too much for her.

"What's his deal?" Maggie asked, positioning herself beside the counter. Glenn was there already, fussing with the coffee machine.

"Who are we talking about?" he asked, smiling at both women as they entered. Michonne smiled back, offering him a one armed hug as he passed.

"The handsome man that Michonne just personally escorted to his room," Maggie reported with obvious glee. She kissed Glenn on the cheek. He flushed as though she didn't do this nearly every chance she got. Michonne hid her smile.

"Oh really?" Glenn's eyebrows jumped. "You going to play matchmaker?" he asked his girlfriend, shooting a skeptical look Michonne's way.

"She will do no such thing," Michonne warned the younger woman. Maggie cheerfully ignored her.

"It couldn't hurt to learn more about him," Maggie said.

"Famous last words," Glenn groused cryptically. The pair of them froze, exchanging eye contact before looking away.

Michonne watched carefully. She reached for a plate, piling raw foods onto it. "You two ok?" she questioned.

"Hungover," Maggie offered an apologetic shrug.

"What are you making?" Glenn asked, eagerly seizing the chance to change the subject. "Breakfast is over. I was going to handle lunch."

"This is something extra," Michonne shrugged, tossing in ingredients. She paused, reconsidering. Heading for the cupboards, she retrieved raw macaroni. "Maggie, can you hand me some cheddar?"

Maggie and Glenn exchanged a knowing look. Maggie went to the fridge, returning with a yellow block of cheese. Michonne put it in a bowl with the macaroni. In a blink, it was baked mac and cheese, steaming up at them.

"Let me guess," Glenn began.

"-The sloppy hottie up there is hungry?" Maggie finished.

"He's a little worse for the wear," Michonne evaded. "We wouldn't be very good hosts if we left him starving."

"Mm hmm," Glenn hummed skeptically. "So he's getting a full southern dinner for brunch?" He turned to the stack of fabric. "Wait, is that what the clothes were for?" Recognition registered in Glenn's eyes.

He and Maggie both stared at her, looking for all the world like expectant children. Michonne's heart gave a funny kind of lurch. She knew what they desired for her. It wouldn't hurt half so much if it was something she could ever give them.

"The food is for him, yes," Michonne confirmed. "And the clothing will be as well."

"All this special treatment," Maggie observed, tone carefully controlled. She drummed her fingers on the counter. "Must be something you like about him."

"He's a US Marshal," Michonne reported, loading the plate further still. "He's hunting down a killer."

There was silence at this. Glenn and Maggie both stared, flabbergasted.

"He told you all of that?" Glenna asked.

"He didn't need to." Michonne selected a mug, setting it beside the plate. "Can you grab the clothes for me?" she asked Glenn. He nodded, heading for a table in the corner, returning with the stack.

"Wait," Maggie held up a hand. "So how did you know?"

Michonne winked. "My superior deductive powers." She lifted the plate, now loaded with southern cooking at its finest.

"Can you read minds?" Glenn asked, amazement on his face and something almost like fear.

Michonne only smiled, setting the food and clothing on a tray. She grabbed a kettle of coffee to go with it. "I had a dream," she said at last, gathering everything into her arms. The coffee pot floated serenely by her side.

"So he's a US Marshal," Glenn said carefully. "Any idea what led him here? Is he doing your job for you?"

"I do more than keep the roads clear of criminals," she reminded them. "But I'm going to find out his purpose," Michonne said, hoisting the tray with a wink. With a smile she left, heading back out and upstairs.

Maggie and Glenn watched her go, remaining in the kitchen.

"We should tell her," Glenn said once the door was shut, staring at his girlfriend.

"We're not even sure there's anything to tell," Maggie argued. "Look how happy she is. Why worry her today?" She gestured to the door. They could hear Michonne humming on the other side. "You checked this morning, right?"

Glenn nodded. "Looked like nothing happened," he reported.

Maggie hugged him. "Halloween is her favorite holiday. We can tell her afterwards."

Glenn sighed. "When we tell her, I'm letting her know it was all your idea."

Maggie rolled her eyes before kissing Glenn fondly on the cheek. "Obviously," she smiled. "I better get back to work."

Glenn kissed her back, turning to the coffee maker. "Think she actually likes that guy upstairs?" he asked. "She's never dated anyone. Not since-" he cut off, listening to Michonne's voice get closer again.

"Maybe," Maggie whispered. "I hope so."

-l-l-l-l-l-

Rick wasn't much in the habit of accepting favors from strangers, let alone relishing them. Even more rare was the notion that he'd spend anytime at all thinking about one. There were criminals to catch, after all, and he had more than his fair share of demons to occupy his time. Memory haunted him, most often in his sleep, his traitorous mind filling with old hurts and unrighted wrongs. He fully expected this rolodex of pain to visit him when he laid his head down in the four-poster bed of his room at Hotel Hawthorne. What he did not expect was to dream about the hotel's caretaker.

"Christ," he bolted up from the pillows, his body slick with sweat. Rick sat up for a moment, drawing in deep, calming breaths. His heart rate slowed gradually, awareness returning to him as the dream slipped away. "Get it together," he mumbled to himself.

One interaction. He'd had literally one interaction with the beautiful woman downstairs, and he was dreaming about her. Aaron might have been right about him needing therapy. The vision had been vivid, the smell of her perfume, the feel of her soft skin, her voice in his ear, telling him how much she wanted him. Rick could have lived with this fantasy alone, but the end of the dream had been anything but satisfying. Gorgeous Michonne Hawthorne had dissolved in his arms, her body going molten until she was nothing but ash.

"Get it together," Rick repeated to himself, pulling the covers back.

A shower cleared his mind, the steam filling the bathroom and his lungs. He felt better by spades as he climbed out of the clawfoot bathtub, wrapping a towel around his waist. His hair dripped water down the back of his neck as he reemerged in his room. A knock on the door startled him.

"Room service," a voice called through the wood, sing-songy and pleasant. Rick hastened to open it, then paused, realizing his state of undress.

Carefully, he cracked the door, peeking out into the hallway. It was quite empty, the only noise being the faint sounds of the lobby's piano and voices coming and going in the rooms around him. Rick's eyes dropped. A sterling silver cart sat unceremoniously near his door, burdened with a stack of clothing and a covered tray. The smell alone was enough to set his mouth watering. Rick grasped the handle, rolling it smoothly inside. There was a simple, cream-colored card atop the clothing. Rick shut the door, seizing it with one hand and flipping it open.

Thought these might come in handy.

~Michonne

Her handwriting was neat, the letters curling slightly. Rick paused at it. Gingerly, he lifted the lid of the tray, nearly falling over at the scent. Fried chicken, greens, baked macaroni and cheese— a lineup of his favorite foods were all arranged artfully on a plate. She'd cooked for him, of that he was oddly certain. She might have even gotten these clothes for him herself. It was an odd amount of attention for a hotel owner to pay a guest.

"Maybe she likes you," he spoke out loud to himself. The thought was far too appealing.

He rolled the cart to the bed, sitting back down. He started with a cup of coffee, sipping on the flavorful brew as he considered his next move. His stomach decided for him with a loud growl. Throwing caution to the wind, Rick seized the fork and dug in. He was halfway through the plate before he remembered he ought to check in with Aaron. Balancing the phone between his shoulder, he dialed the number.

"This is me checking in," Rick said in lieu of a greeting, swallowing another mouthful.

"You've eaten?" His captain asked. "Slept? Showered? Shaved?"

"Eating now," Rick took a bite of chicken, holding in a delighted groan. "Slept a couple hours and showered. I'm reviewing the case. You're gonna have to deal with my beard for now."

"Fine," Aaron conceded. "Any leads?"

"Just these two kids," Rick stared at the computer screen, memorizing their features. "Dixon's car turned up, but no him. I'm going back to the precinct. See what I can find out."

"Stay on it," Aaron instructed. "And be careful."

Rick disconnected, finishing his food. He felt better than he had in years. He shut his laptop, preparing to head out again for the long haul. He glanced over at the clothing, folded with the note atop it. Reaching for it, he pulled it on, piece by piece. It fit like a glove. Rick did his best not to dwell on this. He strapped his holster on, turning his mind back to the matter at hand. Dixon was bleeding out somewhere. Rick intended to find him. Seizing his Colt and his hat, he headed out of the door.

Rick glanced once more at the cart, noting the ruby red apple still sitting on it. He seized it, tossing it once in the air before taking a bite, crunching as he headed out into the world again.

-l-l-l-l-l-

A few hours earlier...

In a narrow alley in the lower 9th Ward, Merle Dixon was dying.

He'd seen it enough to know what it looked like. Hell, most of the time he was the one who'd done the killing. He didn't mind death, not one bit. He'd seen his first man die at 12 years old at the hands of his own daddy. He'd killed his first just after dropping out of high school, leaving her body on the side of the road.

Merle had done plenty more murdering, some for money, some for drugs, some because he was just plain bored. Watching the light leave someone's eyes was fascinating, no matter how he did it.

He found he liked watching the life seep out of himself a whole lot less.

Old memories were coming back to him, snatches of Biblical passages, Sundays in church with grandma. He'd long since given up on the idea of heaven, of hell, of the devil, but now he was having misgivings. Suppose it all was real?

He was going to hell for sure.

"Fucking Daryl," he moaned, cursing his incarcerated little brother. "Fucking, Grimes." The man who shot him was probably laid up somewhere, comfy and happy. He'd be a hero: Officer Friendly who took down the Backwoods Killer. They'd throw him a parade. Merle would be as dead in a ditch as all them faces before him. There was a poetic kind of irony to it.

Chuckling, he tried to sit up against the brick wall, groaning as the effort nearly knocked him unconscious.

"I don't wanna fucking die," he muttered into the darkness. A red sun was rising out there in the east, but he could barely see it. They would find him here in this alley, sitting with the rest of the trash.

"I believe I could help you with that," an uppity southern accent filled the narrow space.

At first, Merle swore he was hallucinating. He blinked up in the low light, taking in the sight of a tall man in gray.

"What the fuck are you supposed to be?" he snarled, spitting as he talked. "You one of them reenactors?"

The man in gray chuckled, stepping closer to him. "I assure you, friend, I'm very real." He paused, peering down into Merle's face.

"We ain't friends," Merle wheezed, clutching the gaping wound in his side. Goddamn Grimes had hit him with at least three shots. He'd be impressed if he hadn't been on the receiving end.

"Perhaps not," the man straightened up, looking amused. "Not yet. I'm Phillip. Phillip Blake." He extended a hand.

"What's that mean to me?" Merle asked, wincing.

"You're dying, Merle Dixon. I can stop that. In exchange for your help, of course." Phillip smiled. With the hand he held out, he touched Merle, right over the worst of his bullet wounds.

At once, the pain subsided. Merle blinked in surprise.

"What the fuck are you?" he asked.

Phillip held out his hand again. "I'd like to be a friend," he repeated.

"And what do I gotta do?" Merle asked.

"Help me finish an old errand of mine, and I'll heal you. Hell, I'll do you one better. In exchange for your assistance, I'll help you get back at the man who did this to you. Grimes, was it?" he raised a brow. "With my guidance, he won't be long for the world."

Merle considered this, stumbling to his feet. Phillip watched.

"What do I gotta do?" Merle asked, shaking his hand.

Phillip grinned, clasping his wrist. At once, Merle felt an odd kind of charge run up his arm. His wounds closed one right after the other, his exhaustion fading away.

"First things first, we need some new clothes," Phillip said. "And we've got an old friend of mine to go see."

"Easy," Merle agreed, popping his muscles.

"Then let's go," Phillip reached for him again.

A red sun continued to rise over New Orleans, but neither man was standing in the alleyway. Only a crimson stain against the brick betrayed their presence at all.


	14. All Hallow's Eve: Season of the Witch

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"You look better," Sergeant Sasha Williams observed as Rick walked through the door of the precinct.

"Took a nap," Rick confirmed, coming behind the counter.

"And a shower it looks like," Williams nodded her approval. "Where'd you end up staying?"

"Hotel Hawthorne," Rick answered, distracted already. "Anything new on Dixon?"

It was as though the air got sucked out of the room. The precinct went silent at once as a dozen pairs of eyes turned to Rick.

"Hawthorne?" Williams choked on the water she was sipping, her manicured eyebrows jumping.

"Yeah," Rick discarded his borrowed brown jacket on a chair beside him. "Nice place."

An officer scoffed, but quickly quelled the sound once Rick turned questioning eyes on him.

"Was the owner there?" Williams asked, her tone controlled.

"She was," he confirmed. A vision of Michonne sashaying down the stairs filled his mind. "She seems nice."

Someone laughed outright at that. "Don't get too close to her," the officer cautioned.

"Why?" Rick directed his question towards Sergeant Williams. "Does she have a record?"

Sasha's face creased, as though she were debating how much to disclose. "Not exactly," she hedged. She began to tug at the pile of curls atop her head, a nervous tick that surprised Rick.

"Then what?" he asked, irritated now.

"She's a witch," an officer piped up from his desk. A few others chuckled nervously.

"What?" Rick scowled. He looked over at Sergeant Williams, sure that she would share his incredulity. Instead she stared back at him, watching carefully for his reaction. Scoffing, Rick reached for a stack of files on the desk in front of him, eager to get back to his search. "I don't have time for this," he groused, hoping this would be the end of the conversation.

"She's a witch," the officer repeated, louder this time. "Her whole family."

"You're kidding, right?" Rick shot the officer a scathing look. "We got a serial killer running around your city and you're spouting bullshit about-"

"I mean, you could call her whole family serial killers," the officer defended himself. "How many people do you think have died?" he asked his partner beside him.

The other man shrugged. "My mama's cousin dated her aunt or something like that. Ended up having a heart attack before he turned 30."

"Sounds like he should have worked out or something," Rick didn't miss a beat. "Bad health isn't exactly a killing."

"Ok, well what about her daddy?" the first officer piped up. "Dropped dead before 40. Doctors couldn't find anything wrong with him. And the step dad? Got hit by a car right outside that hotel. Or shit, maybe that was someone else…"

Rick sighed, doing his best to maintain a hold on his faltering patience. "What are you talking about?" he asked, biting out every syllable.

"All right," Sergeant Williams stood up, raising her hands. "Get back to work, guys."

"You better tell him, Sarge," the officer laughed as they all meandered away. "Before he's the next one."

"Garreth, back to work," Williams barked, shaking her head. The officer scampered off. She turned her eyes to Rick.

"The hell was that?" Rick dropped into the seat next to her, flipping open Dixon's files.

Williams sighed. "You met the owner right?"

"Michonne?" Rick nodded in the affirmative, already reading.

"So you know she's pretty."

"Being pretty makes you a witch?" Rick snorted, rifling through the pages. "Are you a witch then?"

"Williams laughed lowly. "I don't know about witches. But men that Hawthorne women get involved with...they have an ugly trick of dying young."

Rick glanced up over the file. "Sounds like the same shit that happens to the rest of the world happens to them," he countered.

Sasha shook her head. "Except it happens way more frequently. Accidents mostly. Generations of them. Hit by trucks, fall off ladders, mysterious illness…" she shrugged. "You name it. Everybody around here knows that." Her voice went oddly quiet, as though this was a subject she'd rather not discuss.

"Just like everybody here knows they're witches, huh?" Rick grunted, returning to the file.

Sergeant Williams leaned forward. "Look, if you're staying there, you're probably going to see some weird shit. Might have seen it already. And judging by that blush running up your neck when we first mentioned Michonne-" she broke off.

Rick threw her a scathing look that proved ineffective. Sasha cocked an eyebrow.

"I'm just saying. Might be best to keep your distance." She shrugged. "I don't want to have to clean up another body in the Quarter."

Rick laughed, grinning crookedly at her. "I'm here to find a murderer, Sergeant Williams," Rick reminded her. "Same as you."

Sasha chuckled but said no more on the subject of the Hotel Hawthorne or its history. "The truck is in impound. We combed it. The most we found was what looked like a bucket of blood. If it's Dixon's we aren't looking for a fugitive anymore. I think we're looking for a body. No way anyone could survive that."

"You checked the hospitals?" Rick asked.

Williams nodded. "Every one. No one has seen a gunshot wound in the last 24 hours, or anyone matching Dixon's description. How many times did you hit him?"

"A few," Rick said. It was a shame it was so dark that evening, or this might already have been over.

"He would need some serious medical attention. It's a miracle he could even drive." Williams huffed, put out by the whole affair.

"Well," Rick sighed. "He's a stubborn sonofabitch."

"He's a dead one now, I'd guess." She tapped her hands on the desk, deep in thought. " I've got everyone on the lookout for a body. We'll find him."

"I'm going to take a look," Rick announced, unwilling to sit still. "Won't believe it until I see it."

"Where are you going to start?" the sergeant asked. "Do you want a partner?"

Rick shook his head. "I'm quicker alone. Figured I'll start at that cemetery. Poke around and see what turns up."

"Suit yourself," Williams acquiesced. "I'll radio you if anything changes."

Rick stood, reaching for his jacket. "I'll let you know if I see any witches," he told her with a wink.

Sergeant Williams only laughed.

-l-l-l-l-l-

Michonne's suite occupied the top floor of the Hotel Hawthorne. When she was a child, she'd lived here with her parents, happy in the familiar comforts of her mother's family home. Her father was quite the handyman. Under his attentions, old brick and molding wood became open, spacious rooms and windows. Sunlight flooded the kitchen, the counters, the farmhouse sink, splashing against walls of old shelves sagging under the weight of cookbooks, trinkets and family photos. Michonne had played in these halls, running down the narrow corridors to her grandmother's room, sitting in the ancient rocking chair while she sang, or sewed, or made her potions.

The halls were largely quiet now, especially when Glenn and Maggie were elsewhere. Michonne pretended that she did not mind.

It still felt like home: the kitchen bearing traces of her grandmother, the rugs her mother and father had picked out lining the living room floors. She was present now too in her colorful trappings and art, in the plants adorning every surface, and in the wide open windows and heavy manuscripts. It was in this space that she concocted her potions, read her spells, took her rest.

It was here that she currently fixated on Rick Grimes.

She was no stranger to dreams of this nature, suffering from them at a young age. Her nights oft were haunted by omens, snatches of the future, warnings of impending trials. Michonne grew used to them over the years, resigning herself to eventful sleep. Most often it was like watching a previews at the movies, a glimpse into what the day might hold. Some people needed spells, some needed potions, some words of wisdom. The neediest of them came to her at night and Michonne found them in the day. It was rare that a dream proved unclear to her, and rarer still that she dreamed of a man.

She tended not to spare much thought for men, preferring to operate as though the notion of love did not exist. Oh, she had lovers from time to time, and had even been involved in a longer dalliance or two. Only once had she committed the error of falling in love.

She was in no hurry to repeat the mistake.

If Rick Grimes was here for a purpose, than she would fulfill it and send him on his way. Since her dream, she'd felt a dizzying sort of vertigo, as though she was on the precipice of something out of her control. Michonne didn't care for the emotion at all. Once Rick was out of the hotel, she had no doubt that this odd feeling would abate. He would become just another handsome face, a stranger who found her attractive. God willing, Marshal Grimes would go on to lead a long and eventful life.

Michonne opened her window a crack, tempting in some fresh air to cool her heated skin. The hotel was packed, the holiday beginning. She'd spent the better part of her day creating elaborate Hallow's Eve desserts, preparing for her annual party.

Rick was looking for a murderer. This was all well and good. Michonne could assist with this, point him in the right direction. One less murderer on the street, one less distraction inside her walls. Resigning herself, Michonne went to her ancient leather chest, shooing Virgil gently from his perch, and threw open the lid.

Immediately, it became apparent to her that someone had rifled with her possessions.

Two someones, she'd wager, though she was willing to bet it was more Maggie's idea than Glenn's. It explained their guilty behavior all morning. Michonne sighed, contemplating her next move. They'd done a fair job of covering their tracks, but they'd forgotten one critical fact: Michonne had taught them everything they knew.

"Glenn?" she called pleasantly out into the hallway.

"What's up?" his head appeared in the doorway, his faded red ball cap balanced precariously on his ebon hair. In some ways, Glenn looked much the same as when Michonne met him. Young, intelligent, and eager, Glenn made a star pupil almost instantly. He was razor sharp, resourceful, and a natural at magic. He was also hopelessly in love with their resident troublemaker at Hotel Hawthorne.

"Could you help me look for something in here?" Michonne asked, pushing the door open wider.

"Sure." Glenn was nervous already, but attempting to disguise it beneath a winning smile. "Do you want me to get Maggie?" he asked.

"No," Michonne shook her head, reaching for him as he approached. "I haven't gotten some time with just you in awhile." She playfully tapped his hat, guiding him into her suite.

Glenn swallowed thickly. "Sorry."

"For what?" Michonne asked lightly. "She's your girlfriend. Of course you would spend time together. What's there to be sorry for?"

"Nothing," he stammered entirely too quickly, going as red as his hat. "I mean, there's nothing we-I should be sorry for."

Michonne blinked serenely at him. "Are you alright? Tired today?"

"Yeah," Glenn eagerly seized on the excuse. "That must be it." He laughed, an odd, hollow sound.

"Glenn," Michonne began, "I get the sense that you want to tell me something." She began to rifle in her chest, setting items aside one by one. Glenn's eyes followed. "Am I right?" she asked.

He went even more scarlet, his eyes dropping to the floor. "No!" he blurted. "I mean...maybe. I-" he took a breath. "I wanted to ask about that detective guy. You dreamed about him?"

"I did," Michonne nodded, continuing to search the chest. Her books were out of order. She lifted them out slowly. Glenn began to choke.

"And you knew he was going to come today," Glenn pointed out, gaining steam. "You were waiting for him."

"I suspected," Michonne said. "He is searching for a killer. Perhaps we could locate him." She leaned into her chest. "I need my book. Have you seen it?"

"Why would I have seen it?" Glenn's voice cracked. "And you're talking like a regular killer though," he imparted. "Right? Like a human one? Someone alive?"

Michonne paused, looking over at her acolyte. "Glenn," she said slowly. "Please tell me what you need to tell me."

"Maggie and I went to the graveyard last night!" he blurted, voice too loud. Relief settled over his features almost the moment the statement left his mouth. "It was the Harvest Moon. The book, your family's book, it said it's the best time to..." Glenn swallowed. "I wanted to talk to Mama Vangie."

Fear seized Michonne, ice cold in her chest. "St. Louis Cemetery?" she asked, trying to calm herself.

"Yeah," Glenn sighed. "We wanted to ask about the curse."

"Why?" Michonne narrowed her eyes, her patience fleeing her at once. "Why would you ask about that Glenn?"

Glenn went blotchy. "Because Maggie and I see you. We see you Michonne, helping everybody else, pushing everyone who tries to get close away-"

"It's none of your business," Michonne felt flushed, "It's none of either of your business." Virgil, sensing her distress, hissed from the bed.

"It is," Glenn protested. "We live here too. And maybe we're not blood, but we're family. We just wanted to help."

"You don't know what you've done," pressure built behind her eyes. Michonne wiped it away. "You don't know who you could have talked to."

"A man," Glenn said at once. "A man was there. Or his voice, at least." Michonne's stomach dropped. "We…" Glenn swallowed, continuing. "I don't know. All the bricks started shaking, and someone started laughing, and we just ran-"

Michonne did not wait to hear the end. She swept out the door, dark skirt swirling around her ankles, locs streaming in her wake. Glenn was behind her, apologizing, stammering.

"I went back to look this morning. Everything seemed fine," he railed on. "Maybe it was a protection spell, something meant to spook us."

"You should not have meddled with that tomb!" Michonne snapped. "You have no idea what it held."

"Your family..." Glenn tapered off, misgivings tripping him up.

"Yes," Michonne hissed, keeping her voice low as they made their way past room after room. "My family. Protectors of New Orleans for centuries. Generations of Hawthornes, all in a row. There are things we guard, even in death." Michonne spun on him. "Things of which you have no knowledge."

"Oh," Glenn lost all color. "Michonne, if you just told us-"

"There are things you aren't ready for," Michonne snapped. "Both of you."

She spotted Maggie near Rick Grimes' room. Maggie leapt up at once, turning an odd shade of puce.

"I wasn't doing anything!" she swore, hands up. "I was going to do turn down service."

"From what I hear, you've done enough," Michonne continued walking towards her. Perhaps her rage was palpable. Maggie responded immediately.

"We wanted to help," she explained. "We know about the curse and we just wanted to help.

"I told her, Maggie," Glenn said. "She knows what we meant to do, but what we did do-" he broke off. "Maggie, it might be bad."

"There is no might," Michonne interrupted. "You have done damage that may become irrevocable." She pushed past the younger couple.

"Michonne," Maggie called after her. "We're so sorry. You're scaring us-" the girl attempted to get her to stop.

Michonne did not slow, laying her hand on the US Marshal's bedroom door. It opened at once. She entered, moving for the pile of bloodied clothes on the floor. She seized the shirt, tossing it onto the bedside table. She hovered her palm above a crimson stain, shutting her eyes. A moment later, she snapped them open.

"I'm going to the cemetery," Michonne announced. "Watch the hotel. The usual protection spells should hold strong until I return."

"Michonne," Maggie began, her face blotchy. "What's going on?"

Michonne exited the room, slamming the door behind her. The trio huddled in the hall, the younger two withering under her glance.

"Pray I can undo any damage that you have done," she said, moving towards the stairs. "We will discuss more tonight."

"Should we come with you?" Glenn piped up, stepping forward.

"You've both done enough," Michonne gathered herself, glancing out of the window, half-expecting to see that familiar and cruel face. She needed to find Rick, and quickly.

"Are we in danger?" Maggie asked, voice unnaturally high.

"All of New Orleans is," Michonne answered.

Without another word, she exited the safety of her hotel, heading for St. Louis Cemetery.

-l-l-l-l-l-

There was an eerie kind of charm to the towering mausoleums and stained brick, if truth be told. Rick clearly was not the only one who thought so. There was a line of tourists outside of the walls, all waiting in the chilly autumn air for their turn to enter. Rick walked to the front of the line, flashing his badge at the bored attendant seated at the entrance.

"I need to take a look in here," Rick said in his most no-nonsense voice.

The attendant blinked in surprise. "You need to take a tour. It's $20-"

"I ain't here to tour," Rick cut him off. "I'm in search of a fugitive. He may have come here last night."

"No way," the attendant protested. "We were locked up tight all night."

"I'm taking a look," Rick stepped around the stand, ignoring his protests.

"Look man, you gotta take a tour," the attendant tried one last time.

"Bill me," Rick shouted over his shoulder, plowing ahead.

The air was thick between the ancient stones, heavy with moisture. Iit was oddly silent, a vacuum in the middle of a bustling city center. Rick slowed his steps, feeling suddenly ill at ease. Unsure what he was looking for, Rick peered at the dates on the headstones and gothic monuments, mentally clocking.

The city of the dead was an eclectic mix, some new, many old. There were names of souls who departed centuries ago, and a few famous names as well. Rick found himself staring, entranced by the monuments, some sinking, some aged, some brightly polished. He wound through them, searching for something unknown.

A fog began to grow, but Rick scarcely noticed, continuing his sojourn onward. He came to a stop in front of an ancient mausoleum. The red brick had been whitewashed, the color stark and bright. Rick squinted at it, wondering at the name.

"Hawthorne," he read outloud, his heart skipping a beat. His mind went to the hotel, to Michonne, at once. Stepping closer, he glimpsed at the names and dates, etched into the front. The top one was most faded, almost rubbed away. "Apolonia Hawthorne, 1862." Rick traced the letters with a finger.

As he stared, its appearance began to change, the pristine white fading away. Bright red X's began to appear, scratching themselves into the sides and front, as though someone was writing them in real time. Rick blinked in surprise, stumbling back a bit.

"What the hell?" he muttered to himself, reaching for his gun. He'd barely touched the hilt when the door to the mausoleum swung open with a resounding bang, its ancient hinges creaking. From deep inside, Rick could see the outlines of people, women in antique dresses, watching him from the dark.

"Run," one of them spoke, her voice panicked, sending dread racing straight into his heart. Rick stumbled back, lifting his Colt.

The mist swirled, clouding everything around him, choking him. Rick spun, seeking to escape. The ground, once concrete, became sludge, sucking his feet in up to the ankle. Startled, Rick cried out.

In answer, someone laughed a familiar, wheezing croak.

"Not so tough now, are you, Officer Friendly?" Dixon asked from the shadows.

Rick seized his Colt, leveling the weapon in the direction of the open tomb. In the shadows, shrouded by fog, he could see the murderer Merle Dixon, his eyes glowing a preternatural red. Rick fired without hesitation.

Merle only continued to laugh, bearing down on him with a grin.


	15. AHE: Bewitched, Bothered, and Bewildered

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Pain shot up Rick's arm in excruciating waves as he went flying through the cemetery, landing hard on his forearm. There was a sickening cracking sound, his bone shattering like porcelain. Rick grit his teeth, biting his cheek until his mouth filled with blood.

"Bet you weren't expectin' that," Merle cackled, stalking after him.

Rick pushed his feet beneath him, cradling his arm against his chest. His grip on his Colt had slipped in the fall, skittering away into the growing mist. The fog was moving, crawling like some living thing between the tombstones, suffocating the life out of the grass and weeds that had managed to pop up through the concrete. Rick shuffled out of it's reach, his mind reeling with one terrifying thought:

Perhaps witches were real.

"I thought you was a faster runner than that," Merle continued jeering. A headstone shattered with a loud bang, exploding just inches from Rick. He flinched, falling again. The mist crept ever closer.

"Ain't so fun when it's you doin' the running, huh?" Merle asked, stepping around to grin down at Rick. The fog was emanating from him, pushing out from Merle's feet in toxic waves. It reached the bottoms of Rick's boots. The rubber began to burn at once. Rick scrambled further backward. He stared back at the mausoleum, terrified, his eyes trying to make out the figures inside. For a moment, he thought he spotted a woman. She looked familiar. Rick reached out for her. The woman reached back, pushing Rick out of the path of a shattering brick. His gun also moved as though on its own accord, sliding closer to him.

"You know," Merle hovered over him, tossing another brick in the air like a softball, "I was gonna make it quick. Kinda figured you'd buckle as soon as I threw you that first time." He smirked, an ugly, crooked grin. "You're tougher than I gave you credit for, Officer Friendly." He kicked at Rick's arm, tossing the missile in his hands at him almost lazily.

Rick let out a grunt, eyes watering. His skin was beginning to blister as the mist gathered around him, his eyes and lungs burning. It became clear in one terrifying moment that this was the end of the road.

Yelling, Rick got to his feet, startling Merle as he made a sudden dive for his Colt. He was millimeters away when a force jerked him from the ground in a rush. Rick flew backwards once again, thrown bodily against the side of the ancient tomb.

He saw stars, his head spinning, his arm at an awkward angle, blood running down his face.

"You never want to do anything the easy way," Merle observed, strolling towards him. "Almost makes me like you."

Rick spat, blinking sweat and blood out of his eyes. "Go to hell, Dixon," he hissed.

Merle only smiled. "You first." He raised his fist again, brick in hand. Rick tilted his chin up, bracing himself.

In the fog, he spotted something, a dark shadow behind Dixon drawing quickly nearer. Rick wondered at it for a moment, assuming it was perhaps a trick of his mind, the fantasy of a dying man. In front of him, Dixon opened his closed fist, shoving Rick backwards, pinning him between some unseen force and the brick wall behind it. The air rushed out of Rick's lungs. He went blue, suffocating. He looked wildly around for the women from the tomb, desperate for help.

"See you later, Grimes," Merle chuckled.

Behind Merle, the dark shape became clear. Rick's eyes widened at once with recognition. Michonne Hawthorne stood tall, head up, arms out, hair streaming behind her. All trace of kindness was wiped clean from her expression. In its place was a kind of controlled rage, all of it directed at the man attempting to snuff Rick from this earth.

Before Merle even realized she was there, she threw him ten feet in the air without even touching him, yanking him down again like a toy top. He hit the concrete, shattering it with his body, yelling in surprise. Michonne gave him no time to recover. She bared down, clenching her fists. Merle began to scream, his body convulsing.

Merle's hold on his hostage slipped. Rick crumbled to the ground in an undignified pile, taking great gasping breaths as air rushed back into his lungs. He watched dizzily, slumped against the mausoleum.

"Who the hell are you?" Merle questioned Michonne, his cockiness forgotten.

Michonne did not answer, only tossed him back. The mist cleared at once, fading away back into the source. Merle yelped in pain. Panicked, he flung a palm out, managing to move Michonne back a few inches. She threw him again, skipping him over the ground like a stone in a pond.

Merle, realizing that he was outmatched, or perhaps spiteful until the end, redirected his attention towards Rick. Wheezing, he pushed his hand in the direction of the mausoleum. The brick began to crumble at once, burying Rick in rubble.

Rick lacked both the strength and wherewithal to so much as scream. His world was going dark in a hurry, his heart rate slowing.

"Now is not your time," a calm voice told him, the cadence at once soothing and terrifying. "Fight, Marshal Grimes," it instructed. "Fight."

Rick opened his eyes, adrenaline filling him. He pushed out, every motion sending stabbing pain through his chest. The bricks shifted, pushing at him. He tried to scream.

At once, the heavy pile pulled away from him, stacking themselves back into order at record speed. Michonne stood in the distance, her face turned away from him, her hand pointed towards him. The mausoleum took shape, settling back into place. The world went silent in a rush.

Rick let out a rattling gasp, surprising himself at how horrible his wheezing sounded. Michonne turned towards him at once. She rushed for him.

"Rick," Michonne's face was inches from his, concern etched all over her expression. "Rick, stay with me."

He blinked groggily, watching through clouded eyes as she fussed with him, tugging at his blood-soaked clothing.

"Michonne," he exhaled, full of questions, barely clinging to consciousness.

"Hang on," she instructed, her hands finding his. "Just hang on."

Rick shut his eyes, giving into the darkness.

-l-l-l-l-l-

Glenn and Maggie were at her door, watching anxiously when Michonne arrived. They started at once, leaping to their feet when she appeared, sagging under the weight of an unconscious Rick.

"Oh my God," Maggie's hand flew to her mouth. She burst into tears on sight. Glenn, though panicked, rushed forward, supporting the dying US Marshal.

"What do you need?" he asked, grunting as he took on most of Rick's bulk.

Michonne assisted him, ignoring her blood-streaked hands. "I need my case," she directed this at Maggie. The girl swallowed thickly, but scampered off on shaking legs. "Glenn, lay him on the bed." She tossed Rick's battered hat on the nightstand. It landed in perfect condition, restored once more.

He complied, getting Rick situated as Maggie returned with the case clutched to her chest. She sat it down beside Rick, opening it. Michonne suppressed her panic as she examined the US Marshal.

Resilient though he proved to be, he was unmoving now, his heart beating slowly and faintly, his skin pale and blood streaked. He was burned, bruised, beaten to a pulp, his bones broken in more than one place. Michonne calculated, seeking the best place to begin.

"What can we do?" Maggie asked Michonne, calming herself. Michonne offered her a grateful nod, her earlier anger abatted. She straightened up, stepping back from the bed.

"I need to see how hurt he is," Michonne rushed around her room, gathering supplies.

Her students obeyed, tugging the soiled jacket off. Maggie made quick work of his blood-stained shirt, gasping outright when she spotted the myriad of gashes and bruises. Rick's ribs were clearly shattered. He gasped, wheezing, fighting still.

"What happened to him?" Glenn's eyes were wide. He went pale, looking moments from becoming sick.

Michonne did not answer. She had only minutes now. She busied herself, beginning with the worst of his injuries. The spell came to her like a second nature, heat blossoming from the tips of her fingers. His punctured lung she repaired first, then his shattered ribs. She traced her hands along his ashen skin, erasing the damage as best she could.

"He's not waking up," Glenn's voice was shaky.

Michonne nodded. "He's been cursed," she muttered, still poking at him. "Grab the small violet bottle from my case."

Glenn obeyed at once, shoving it into Michonne's hand. Michonne carefully removed the stopper. The scent was at once calming, a clean smell, like the embodiment of spring. She lowered the bottle, administering a single drop into Rick's mouth.

With a rattling gasp, he began to breathe again, his chest rising and falling.

"Is he going to live?" Maggie asked quietly.

"I will do my best to ensure he does," Michonne sighed. Exhaustion was filling her now, her relief short-lived.

"Michonne," Glenn began in a whisper. "What was this?"

"An old enemy," Michonne stood up, her work not yet finished. "And a new one as well."

They stared at her expectantly. Michonne took a shaky breath. "The Governor, that's what I've always known him by," she began, reciting from memory.

Glenn and Maggie crowded closer to her, eager to hear. Michonne continued.

"Sometime during the Civil War, he came to rule New Orleans. He played the part of a southern gentleman, all charm and good graces, but beneath his skin, he was a monster, even more so than most men were at that time." Michonne recounted. "My ancestors, three sisters, they lived in the Quarter, in this house. Ran a hospital of sort for soldiers, runaways in the war. People respected them, looked to them."

"Like you," Glenn observed.

Michonne nodded. "The Governor, he heard about them, heard about three black women making money. He heard they were magic. I guess he figured he'd get some of that magic for himself. Propositioned them all, wanting a look at our spellbook. They refused. Then he went one at a time, oldest to youngest. They refused, refused, refused. But with the youngest...I guess he figured if he couldn't have what he wanted, he'd take it by force. She fought him off, hurt him pretty bad, but it was nothing compared to the blow she dealt his pride. The Governor let them be for a bit, but he bided his time, spreading rumors, poisoning New Orleans against the sisters. And when the war came to New Orleans, the Governor saw his chance. He gathered his forces, marched to this house, demanding my aunts give up their magic."

"Then what?" Maggie whispered.

"Someone broke in. I doubt he knew what he was looking for, because he skipped over the spellbook, but found my aunts' potions. They kept quite a few back then, for emergencies, in case the war went bad. Some unassuming boy stumbled on one meant to turn the tide."

"He stole it?" Maggie asked.

"Didn't know what it did, but he figured it'd be good enough. Brought it to the Governor. Poured the whole thing in his mouth." Michonne sighed. "That monster of a man turned into a monster for real. Leveled half the town. History will tell you it was the battle. But it was the Governor, raising the town to ash, and my ancestors, fighting him."

"But they won," Glenn said. "Obviously, they won." He leaned forward, all nervous energy.

Michonne worried at her nails, continuing the story. "At a cost. They managed to bring him down, but not without a fight. As long as the Governor stays buried, banished to hell where he belonged, our line is cursed too. Any Hawthorne woman, from here to eternity, bares the scar." She sighed, her eyes darting to Rick, unconscious in her bed. " Any man who dares love us takes the curse on, dying in the spring of his life," Michonne said. "My father, my grandfather, even my step father, all the way back. We continue, guarding the Governor, keeping him buried. But the cost for that is love." The admission sat heavily, hanging in the air, the truth finally spoken aloud.

"Mike," Glenn wiped his face, unable to meet her eye.

Michonne looked away. "By seeking to speak with my ancestors, you woke the Governor. But I'm afraid it might be my fault too."

"Michonne, no," Maggie sobbed quietly. "It was Glenn and I-"

"My magic has weakened," Michonne admitted. "After Mike, I…" she paused. "The Hawthorne line needs to continue. It needs daughters, one right after the next. It means more people will die. And I wasn't willing to do that." Mike's death had damaged that part of her, erasing any notion that life might be kinder to her than it was to her parents. "Now the Governor is awake."

"We'll stop him," Glenn said, all reckless courage. "You have us. You've taught us. The three of us can do it."

"Maybe so," Michonne smiled gratefully at him.

"And the Marshal?" Maggie looked frightened, but she steeled herself. "The dreams?"

Michonne looked over to Rick. He was breathing, his chest rising and falling in a gentle rhythm.

"That remains to be seen," she said. She stood, bending over Rick again. His breathing was regular, the pallor returning to his skin. "For now, there is no time to waste. Nor to be afraid."

Glenn and Maggie nodded, grim resignation settling on each of their faces.

"We need to gather our strength," Michonne said, doing her best to maintain her calm. "We need to be ready. All of us."

"What do we say?" Maggie asked. "When she asks, what do we tell her?"

"We will tell her that The Governor is awake once more," Michonne said. "And this time, he has an ally."

-l-l-l-l-l-

Miles outside of the city, the Bayou began to come alive, its residents moving within the shallow waters. The swamp, though beautiful at the best of times with its willows and greenery, was home to many predators. Alligators prowled its waters, venomous snakes sheltered in its trees. Smart folks knew that the swampland was no place for anyone after dark. What they did not know was that hidden amongst the trees and gators, a different kind of monster was bearing its teeth.

"You did what?" Phillip roared, his words hitting the already injured Merle like a lash. Long cuts opened along the man's face. He stumbled back.

"It ain't my fault!" Merle spat back.

"You had one mortal to kill, and you could not!" Phillip railed on, his rage growing palpable. Around him, the Bayou began to wither, the trees dying, shriveling as though they'd been touched by flames. "You have drawn attention to us. Even now, our enemy is moving, readying themselves." He delivered another blow, opening Merle from shoulder to waist in a cruel gash.

Merle fell to his knees but did not waver. "It was that woman! I had Grimes right where I wanted him until she arrived."

Phillip paused, narrowing his eyes. "What woman?"

"I don't know," Merle said. "Dark girl, mean little cuss. You told me no one would be able to match my powers," he accused. "How do you explain her?"

Phillips contemplated this, the swamp falling silent around him. "She attacked you?" he asked slowly, staring off into the distance as though he could see the woman in question.

"Only stopped when I buried that damned Marshal in a pile of bricks. I barely got away." Merle recounted.

Phillip's face creased into something that was almost a smile. "She ceased the fight to save him?"

"That's what I said, ain't it?" Merle groaned, bleeding out into the swamp. Gators crowded the shallow water, sensing their opportunity. Phillip paid them no mind.

He raised a hand for silence, drawing Merle to his feet. With a snap, his injuries disappeared, leaving the murderer standing in full health.

"Perhaps she has a soft spot for your Marshal Grimes," Phillip mused.

"Looks like it," Merle examined himself. "What's that mean to you?"

"It means," Phillip chuckled, "that our enemies might eliminate each other."

"By what?" Merle scoffed. "Making kissy faces at each other? Let me finish them. I'll go tonight-"

Phillip silenced him again, turning instead to look out at the horizon. "Let them finish each other," he instructed, grinning as the sun set.

-l-l-l-l-l-

It had taken the better part of two hours to set Rick back to rights. Michonne finished siphoning the evidence from her sheets, removing the blood. She'd changed him first, then herself, disposing of their ruined clothing in lieu of worn-in cotton pajamas. Rick was none the wiser, asleep still among her pillows. He looked a far cry from how she'd found him.

Michonne approached her canopied bed, watching for a moment. The other guests in her hotel were blissfully unaware of what had transpired, preparing for a night out. Costumed visitors filled her lobby, drinking, laughing, joking. The world was as it should be tonight. Michonne prayed it would stay that way.

She laid a palm against Rick's forehead, checking for fever. His hair, a disorderly mess of curls, was plastered to his skin, stirring as he exhaled. Michonne sat the mug in her other hand down, lowering herself to the bed beside him.

"Rick," she leaned forward to whisper in his ear. "Wake up."

He blinked himself awake on command, looking around wildly. After a moment, his blue eyes focused in on her face.

"What happened?" he asked, his voice a hoarse croak.

Michonne retrieved the mug, bringing it towards him. "You're safe," she assured him. "For now."

He blinked at her in the low light. Michonne turned the lamp in her room on with a thought.

Rick tilted his head back, away from her. "You're a witch," he said, as though the notion shocked him still. He stared at the light. "Am I right?"

Michonne smiled wryly. "You've been talking to the locals, I see," she observed. Sighing, she released the cup, allowing it to hover between them. Rick gasped outright.

"This is…" he huffed, looking as though he had half a mind to run. "This is fucking insane."

"More so than usual," she agreed. "You should drink," she moved the mug closer to him. "You'll feel better."

Rick refused still. "Merle attacked me," he recounted, attempting to make order of the chaos.

"I thought that might be him," Michonne nodded. She'd have killed him outright if he hadn't pulled that trick with her family's tomb. Merle Dixon might prove to be more of a problem than she first suspected.

"You were there. You and the other women," he continued.

"Just me," she corrected.

He blinked in surprise. "You saved me," Rick remembered, "and Merle-"

"He took advantage of my distraction to escape," Michonne exhaled. "He is not our main concern."

"The hell he ain't," Rick struggled to sit up, wincing. "He shouldn't be your concern at all. Christ, he's some kind of wizard?" Rick shook his head, slumping back into the pillows.

Michonne reached beneath him, helping him settle more comfortably. "I would guess that it's as new for him as it is for you," she said.

"Doesn't matter. He's gonna start killing again," Rick grew more agitated, looking as though he wanted to give chase.

"He tried to kill you tonight," Michonne reminded him. "I did my best to save you, but you're not out of the woods yet." She laid a finger on his broken arm. Rick hissed in pain at once. "Your arm, four ribs, a few toes, and possibly a vertebrae," she listed. "You aren't doing any chasing until they're fixed."

Rick paled. "Can't you...magic them better?" he hazarded.

Michonne held in a laugh. "I can," she nodded. The mug, still steaming, nudged against the side of Rick's head.

He looked warily at it, but seized it with his good hand, bringing the cup slowly to his lips. Relief passed over his features as he took the first sip.

"It's good," he exhaled, drawing in another deep gulp. "It's a potion or something?"

Michonne chuckled. "Mint," she confirmed.

Rick drank the rest down in a hurry. Pleased, Michonne refilled the mug with a thought. He gasped again.

"This is insane," he whispered, staring down at the swirling green contents.

"And here I thought saving you was impressive," Michonne remarked. "I could pull something out of a hat for you, if you'd like." The moment of levity felt good, even in the wake of the horror that awaited them.

Rick looked up at her, a blush coming to his cheeks. "I-" he broke off, swallowing thickly. "Thank you," he said simply. "This is all new and I'm not sure-" He shook his head. "I ain't sure what's real and what's not."

"You're welcome," Michonne reached for his arm, her fingers probing. Satisfied that the bone was mended, she stood up once again. "We have a lot to talk about, Rick. But you should rest."

"Merle-" he began.

"Won't be doing any killing tonight," she assured him. "You aren't the only one needing healing. You'll be safe here. Rest now."

Rick nodded, distracted. Michonne watched him, a stab of pity filling her. He was out of his element, alone in a strange city.

"I guess I'll see you in the morning," his voice was tight.

Michonne paused. "Would you like me to stay?" she offered lightly. Internally, she cursed herself. She needed to keep her distance from this man.

His nod was so small that it was nearly imperceptible. Still, Michonne saw it. She reached for the mug, setting it beside the bed on the table.

"Move over," she teased, drawing up the covers. "You're hogging my bed."

He blushed even deeper, shimmying to the side. "Sorry," he told her.

"Don't be," Michonne laid down, exhaustion overtaking her. She felt Rick stifen at her side. Tension mounted as they each did their best not to touch at all, arranging themselves in her suddenly too-small bed. Slowly, Rick sank into the mattress, relaxing into the pillows.

"Your room is nice," he murmured, voice growing heavy with sleep.

"Thank you," she drew the covers up, resigning herself to a long night.

"This bed is comfortable," he observed, eyes sliding shut.

"Magic has a few perks," Michonne whispered back.

Rick did not answer. He slept soundly, his face turned towards her. Michonne pushed a curl gently out of his face, watching him for a moment. In her dreams, she'd seen him here, beside her. The thought was elating and terrifying at once.

With a sigh, she extinguished the lights, lying beside him, keeping watch.


	16. AHE: The Hawthorne Curse

The sun was slow to rising that autumn morning, struggling through the clouds. The Hotel Hawthorne sat serenely in the dark, its occupants quiet, at rest, none the wiser to the threat growing on the outskirts of the city. On the top floor, Michonne began to stir, waking up to discover that she was essentially pinned to her bed.

For a moment, she panicked, preparing to fight her way free. Realization dawned and awareness sharpened. The weight holding her down was no threat, but the form of one US Marshal Grimes.

She craned her head, observing him in the low light, debating slipping free. Rick was still deep in sleep, breathing peacefully. His salt and pepper beard had made even more headway overnight, dusting his chin and cheeks. His coif had seen better days, though Michonne had to admit that the wild mess of curls pressing into her shoulder and pillows was not wholly unappealing. One muscled arm and leg were thrown over her waist, holding her tightly in place.

His weight was comfortable, familiar, a call back to an intimacy long lost to her. Michonne's stomach dropped at the sensation, adrenaline filling her. She should move, slip from the warmth of this bed and Rick's embrace. She should lay her plans, begin the hunt, rally others.

Instead, she laid still, watching him.

Her hand moved nearly on its own accord, fingering the silken tendrils of his hair. Across her stomach, Rick's hand flinched, tightening around her, drawing her ever closer. He sighed, tugging her beneath him.

Michonne froze, her breathing stammered. The heat of him against her was undoing her completely, sending her into a tailspin. She curled her fingers into the sheets beneath her, deciding at once that this had gone too far.

"Morning," Rick's voice was gravelly, his eyes still shut as he mumbled to her.

"Morning," Michonne cleared her throat. "Are you feeling better?"

"I'm feeling great," he smiled, fluttering his eyes open. "That tea of yours is a miracle cure."

"Family recipe," Michonne whispered, hoping that he couldn't feel the frantic fluttering of her heart against his chest.

Rick sat up, angling himself above her, a flush creeping up his neck as he looked at her. "Should we get up?" he asked lowly, his arms tightening around her.

"Probably," Michonne swallowed, watching as Rick did the same.

"Yeah," he mused, adam's apple bobbing. "Probably."

Instead, he leaned down, drawing her upwards, and kissed her. It was like an electric shock. Michonne responded at once, gasping. She clutched at his shoulders with half a mind to push him back. Instead, her hands clasped at him, taking stock of the warmth of his skin, the strength humming just beneath. Rick tilted his face, deepening their connection, coaxing her lips apart. All desire to flee was lost as he gasped, sucking at her.

She held him close, arching up into the heat of him. His hands, calloused and rough, wrapped around her waist before trailing down, unabashedly exploring her beneath the soft cotton fabric of her pajamas. She moaned against his mouth when he cupped her ass, a needy, plaintive sound. Rick pulled back to grin.

"Stay in bed with me," he requested, kissing her neck for good measure.

Michonne complied. Their exploration became feverish, hands groping, tongues wandering, their breathing broken. She wrapped her legs around his narrow waist and squeezed, drawing a delightful groan from him. Rick reached for her hands, pinning them to the bed, leaving her open to his advances.

Her need for him grew, igniting into an inferno, spurred on by the feel of his lips, his touch, the clipped phrases falling out of his mouth. She wanted him desperately, misgivings fading away until it was all she could think of. Her eyes fell shut as his palms found her beneath her shirt, massaging and pinching in turn.

"God," she sighed, arching into his touch. "Rick."

"Rick?" It was not the Georgia accent she suspected, but something deeper, more familiar. "Who the hell is Rick?"

Fear seized her as she opened her eyes. "Mike," she stammered at the other man, younger, taller. His face creased, anger coloring his handsome countenance.

"Who the hell is Rick?" he repeated, shaking her a bit. "You've got a new man?"

Michonne squirmed, seeking to free herself. "No," she protested, pushing at him. Mike pushed back harder, pinning her.

"You gonna kill him?" Mike questioned. All traces of youthfulness was disappearing from his face, his dark skin going ashen, his hair graying rapidly. "You're going to kill him like you killed me?"

Before her eyes, he melted away, death seizing him even as he spoke.

"You're gonna kill us both?" Mike accused.

"No," Michonne thrashed, forgetting her magic in lieu of panicking. "No Mike, no-"

Hands seized her shoulders, shaking her forcefully.

"Hey," it was Rick's voice again, laced not with lust or longing, but concern. "Michonne, wake up."

She blinked awake, coming to reality. Her skin was sweat-soaked, her heart racing.

Rick leaned over her, his face creased. "You're having a nightmare." His voice was soothing, low in the dark of the bedroom. "It's ok. You're awake now."

Michonne nodded, drawing in a deep, ragged breath.

"Just breathe," Rick instructed, his hand moving from her shoulders to cup her face. His fingers worried at her throat, finding her pulse. "Look at me and breathe," he inhaled slowly, waiting until she mirrored him. "You ok?" he asked lightly. His hand slipped from her neck, finding her locs instead. He toyed with them almost absently, watching her expectantly in the low light.

"I'm fine," Michonne said, satisfied that it sounded true. She ignored the flush of her body, the aftershocks of her dream. "How are you?"

"Feeling great," he grinned crookedly at her. "That tea of yours worked. Want me to get you some?"

She laughed, albeit a bit forced, her pulse jumping. "I'm ok," she assured him, sitting up. Rick moved back a bit, but remained close. Michonne could see the faint brown freckles banding across his nose. She quickly looked away.

"Must have been some dream," he observed, tilting his head at her. "You started screaming." Embarrassment flooded her. Rick only shrugged. "I get 'em too," he whispered. "No shame in it." He smiled at her, just a slight quirk of his lips. His hand dropped from her hair to land on her arm, the rough fingertips brushing her skin. Her breath hitched again.

Michonne only nodded, wiggling free of the warmth of the blankets. "I need to get up," she said, refusing to look at him.

"It ain't sunrise yet," Rick pointed out.

She swung her legs sideways, putting space between them. "The enemy isn't sleeping," Michonne said. The floor was cold beneath her feet as she moved away from him.

Rick nodded, tossing the blankets back to follow her. He stood expectantly on the other side of the bed.

"I gotta check in with the local precinct here. They're out searching for Dixon. They don't know he's-" he broke off, clearly unsure how to describe it. "I'm going to keep looking for him. See if I can't catch him before…" Rick trailed off again.

"I'll come," Michonne offered.

"I appreciate that," he nodded.

"Might be better if your people don't know I'm there though. Some people don't have the highest opinion of me."

A smile tugged at Rick's lips. "The Sergeant thinks you're pretty."

Michonne laughed, caught off guard. "Sasha Williams? Grew up with her." Michonne shook her head. Sasha knew better than most what she was.

Rick shrugged. A silence grew between them, charged.

"I'll…" Rick cleared his throat. "I'll go back to my room," he stammered. His eyes fell on a pile of his clothing on a chair near the bed.

She nodded, unable to speak, and watched as he collected his belongings. He paused when he'd pulled it all into his arms, his hat balanced on top.

"Thank you, again," he said. "I really appreciate you saving me."

Michonne felt the first genuine smile of the day tug at her. "I'll meet you in the lobby," she told him.

With a nod, Rick was gone. Michonne shut the door behind him, her mind spinning. Calming herself, she took a deep breath. Sighing, she headed for her bathroom, determined to put the dream behind her.

-l-l-l-l-l-

The water from the shower beat down on Rick's sore muscles. He turned the heat up, bowing his head beneath the stream, inspecting every inch of skin he could see. He'd damn near died yesterday, but his body bore no trace of it. No bruises, no gashes, no pain, no sign at all that Merle had buried him beneath a pile of bricks in a graveyard. Even old scars and marks were gone, his skin smoother than it'd been in years. Rick ran his fingers over his chest, tracing the mended bone. There was no denying the truth of things anymore.

Magic was real.

As much as the logical part of him warred with this notion, evidence was evidence, and this was irrefutable. This revelation sparked what seemed like an infinite amount of other questions. Most pressing were the women he'd seen in the graveyard, the ones with faces so like Michonne. Perhaps he was losing his mind after all. With difficulty, Rick put the thoughts aside, moving to the matter at hand. If Merle was, as Michonne believed, playing patsy to a higher power, then they were in some serious trouble.

He sighed, rinsing the soap from his hair and beard, contemplating his next move. He ought to be focusing on the plan, but he needed to get a hold of himself first. Never before had he felt so distracted. He was out of his element, floundering in new territory, but it wasn't thoughts of magic or Merle that were filling his mind.

It was Michonne.

He'd woken up with her pressed to his side, her hand resting on his chest, just over his heart, as though she was shielding him. He'd contemplated getting up, moving away, back to his room. Her bed was warm, her presence comforting, and despite his misgivings, he'd remained. He was glad now, in the wake of her nightmare, that he'd been there to offer a modicum of help.

She'd whispered his name. He thought it was a trick of his sleep-addled mind at first, but then she'd repeated it. One single syllable, half-sighed in her sleep was consuming him.

"Get it together," Rick mumbled to himself, slamming the water off. He wasn't the type of man to get derailed by a pretty face, no matter the circumstances. Michonne deserved better than that besides. Whatever part he'd played in her dream, it clearly had taken a dark turn. She'd almost thrown him out of the bed with the force of her nightmare.

Rick toweled off, chastising himself until he got his thoughts back on track. He pulled on his clothing, marveling that his jacket was whole and intact once again. He just managed to get on his boots when his cell phone began to ring.

"Mashal Grimes," he greeted, heading for the door.

"Grimes," it was Sergeant Williams. She sounded tired. Understanding seized him at once.

"Where'd you find it?" he asked, cursing himself.

"Near the Quarter," she relayed, voice heavy. "Young girl and her boyfriend. Both in their 20s. Trying to identify them now."

"Text me the address," Rick sighed. "I'll be there."

-l-l-l-l-l-

Phillip smiled from his place on the balcony overlooking the scene, watching as police gathered below. It was still dark, the air frosted and cold. Few spared a look for the sleepy buildings around them, and fewer still could have even perceived the men standing there.

"Well, the night wasn't a total loss then," he glanced at Merle. "Good job."

Merle offered a crooked grin. "I can do better than that." His breath clouded in front of him, a stark contrast to the shade of a man beside him.

"Good," Phillip drummed his fingers on the iron railing. "You'll need to. We need as many as you can before Hallow's Eve." He calculated, looking up the road, in the direction of the Hotel Hawthorne.

Merle nodded. "Easy work," he said, looking as though he could hardly wait. He watched with predatory eyes as the city came alive around them, drawn by the sirens.

"Then I suggest you get to it," Phillip spared Merle a glance. "That Marshal of yours is alive and well. Miss Hawthorne made sure of that." His tone took on a sharp edge when he spoke Michonne's name. "You will need to stay a step ahead of them."

"I thought you said you'd handle them," Merle reminded him. "Why not take them last night when they was all cozied up?"

Something flashed in Phillip's eyes that sent Merle back a step, swallowing thickly. "We have discussed this," he ground out tersely. "Until you hold up your end of our agreement, I do not have the strength to penetrate her defenses."

"She's that powerful?" Merle asked, impressed despite himself.

"I should think you would have no questions about her power," Phillip scoffed. "Or have you so soon forgotten your defeat at the hands of a woman?"

"She caught me off guard," Merle countered. "I had that damned Marshal. I won't let it happen again."

"Good," Phillip nodded. "I've taken measures to ensure that they are not at their best today."

"Meaning what?" Merle asked, crossing his arms.

"Perhaps I cannot yet enter her hideout," the thought alone seemed to anger Phillip. "But I have other ways of lowering her defenses. I have them both where I need them to be."

"If you say so," Merle looked eager to depart. The cold was beginning to bother him, seeping in through his too-thin clothes. The whole world seemed colder in Phillip's presence. Ice was forming on the wrought iron railing, cracking the ebon paint. "He's going to be hard to get close to, with her guarding him."

"Leave that to me," Phillip dismissed Merle, waving a hand. "I took steps to ensure she wouldn't be a problem centuries before Michonne was even a thought. You hold up your end. I'll take care of mine."

Merle nodded, retreating into the warmth of the building. The bar was empty, save for a lone figure slumped in the corner. He almost felt bad for the security guard. He hadn't even seen him coming.

"And Dixon?" Phillip called to him.

"Yeah?" Merle paused in the doorway.

"Don't ever question my methods again," he warned, eyes flashing. In a blink, he was gone, leaving only empty space where he once stood. Merle glanced down onto the street, watching as Mashal Grimes ran up the sidewalk. The woman was with him, the same bitch who'd attacked him last night.

"Alright," Merle murmured to himself. "Let's see how you two like what I've got for you next."


	17. AHE: Revelations

"How did I know I'd find you here?" Sergeant Sasha Williams rounded the corner a block from where her team was finishing with the crime scene. She came up short as she entered the cafe, the bell ringing aggressively as it bounced against the doorframe.

Michonne looked up from her coffee, gesturing for her to sit down. Sasha sighed, but complied, lowering herself into the wire chair in front of Michonne. Michonne took a moment to observe her; Sasha looked much the same as she did when they were children. She always favored her father, in looks and temperament. Still, Sasha couldn't hide the whole of her nature.

"I take it that your team has come up with a reasonable explanation for the bodies found this morning?" Michonne asked, pushing a cup towards Sasha. "Two sugars, right?"' She went back to her own drink, stirring the coffee absentmindedly without even touching it.

Sasha scoffed. "Yeah," she answered, clearly frustrated. "We've got a damn serial killer loose." She accepted the mug, taking a gulp. "I take it there's a reasonable explanation for you hanging around my crime scene?"

"The same as usual," Michonne tucked a loc behind her ear.

"You want to clue me in?" Sasha asked.

"Don't I always?" Michonne questioned in turn. She stirred more cream into her coffee.

"So?" Sasha asked, setting her cup down.

"The Governor is awake," Michonne said simply. "And it seems now that no matter how many times Marshal Grimes and I try to put Merle Dixon down, he gets right back up." Michonne refilled her cup. "I have to guess that the Governor found your killer before you did."

Sasha paled, her eyes going round. "You're joking."

"Do I look like it?" Michonne cocked a brow. "You heard the stories, same as I did growing up. And you might not practice anymore-"

"For good reason," Sasha said sharply.

"I never said it wasn't," Michonne soothed. "There's only so much tragedy a person can take. You start looking for ways to make it better." She glanced at Sasha's badge, gleaming from her chest.

"What are you asking?" Sasha pressed.

"I'm not asking anything. I'm warning," Michonne said. "The Governor remembers the Hawthornes, of that I'm sure. You haven't had any premonitions? Any odd dreams? Mine have started to sharpen. I checked the book. Apparently, it runs in the family."

"I don't practice anymore," Sasha repeated.

"Might be time to start again, don't you think?" Michonne polished off her cup.

"I've done fine without it," Sasha said, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Better than fine," Michonne agreed. "All things considered, we both have."

Sasha nodded curtly. "I have to get back to work. If this Merle guy is what you say, it should be me that brings him in."

"Marshal Grimes is looking for him," Michonne said.

"He won't be able to handle-" Sasha began to argue.

Michonne cut her off. "Grimes, he knows. Merle attacked him last night. I patched him up."

This statement hung like a bombshell between them. Sasha began to chuckle.

"I knew he was getting too close to you," she mused, shaking her head.

"Yes," Michonne said serenely. "He mentioned you discussed it. I appreciate the compliment."

"Look, I didn't mean anything by it." Sasha sat up straighter. "It's clear he's attracted to you-"

"Sasha," Michonne bit back a sigh.

The younger woman only gained steam. "And it's not your fault, it's just-"

"Sasha!" Michonne's tone sharpened for the first time that morning. "I'm aware," she said simply. "My interest in Rick Grimes is keeping him alive. He can help. He knows Merle better than either of us."

"You think that's safe?" Sasha asked incredulously.

"No," Michonne admitted. "But he's hellbent on catching this Merle Dixon, and I figure we ought to let him. If we find Merle, we find the Governor."

"You're going after the Governor?" Sasha processed this, tapping her fingers.

"Someone has to. He's going to use Halloween."

"Obviously," Sasha agreed. "That leaves us a day."

"There will be more victims," Michonne said.

Sasha only sighed.

"Glenn and Maggie, they know enough now. I'm sending them to you." Michonne said.

"I don't need-" Sasha protested.

"You do," Michonne cut her off. "You need to be ready. If I can't defeat him, it falls to you."

Sasha sucked at her teeth, suddenly gaining interest in the surface of the table.

Michonne sat her empty mug down, reaching across the table. She tapped Sasha's badge twice, brushing nimble fingers over the surface. Sasha reached for her, lacing their hands together tightly.

"Do not forget who you are, sister," Michonne said. "The world certainly will not." She kissed Sasha's palm before releasing her and standing up.

"Good luck," Sasha called to her, voice heavy.

"And to you as well," Michonne smiled, exiting the coffee shop.

-l-l-l-l-l-

"Fuck," Aaron cursed into the receiver. "You said you shot the bastard."

"I did," Rick confirmed. "I think he's got an accomplice."

"His brother?"

"No," Rick sighed. "Daryl Dixon is locked up tight on possession."

"Well who then?" Aaron asked.

"Got the whole NOLA PD looking," Rick relayed. "We'll find him."

"Before he kills someone else, please," Aaron sounded as exhausted as Rick felt. "Shit, Rick-"

"I know," Rick's eyes moved from the crime scene to up the street. Michonne was exiting a coffee shop. She waved at him. "I gotta go. I'll check back in once I know more."

"Be careful," Aaron levied his parting words, disconnecting.

Rick met Michonne in the middle, ducking into a narrow alleyway. They stood in close proximity, Rick shivering in the cold morning air. Michonne noticed. She reached for him, laying a hand on his shoulder. He instantly warmed.

"Thank you," Rick tucked his hands into his pockets along with his phone. "What's the plan?"

Michonne looked back out onto the street. "Sergeant Williams has agreed to watch over things here while we continue the search."

"Really?" Rick asked in surprise. "Didn't figure she'd go for that." Sergeant Williams, lovely though she might have been, was a no nonsense sort of leader.

Michonne laughed lightly. "She is not so normal as she pretends to be," she said. A divot appeared between her brows, the tell-tell sign of some old annoyance. Rick's curiosity was instantly stoked.

"How do you know each other?" he asked, lightly. "You said you were kids?" He wondered for a moment what kind of child the woman in front of him had been. He was willing to bet she was sharp as a tack, even then. Her parents probably had their hands full.

"We're sisters," Michonne announced without preamble, shooting a look that made him sure she knew that he was prying. "Half on our mother's side."

Rick digested this, gobsmacked. "She's a witch too?"

"She will tell you she is not," Michonne began to walk, leading Rick on a winding path through the Quarter. He hurried after her, full of even more questions.

"But you know better?" Rick guessed. "Does it go by blood? How do you-" he cut himself when Michonne looked at him amusedly.

"Typically yes," she answered. "Hawthorne women can only be what we are," Michonne said over her shoulder, her locs swinging as she strolled. "Our mother was one, and her mother before her, back since before we were stolen and brought to America."

"But Sasha isn't a Hawthorne," Rick pointed out.

"She took her father's name. He was a lovely man, and I cannot blame her. Still, blood is what it is." There was an old hurt here, that much was clear, though Michonne was gallantly attempting nonchalance.

Rick paused, searching for a way to politely phrase his thoughts. "Why doesn't she want to be a witch?"

Michonne smiled wryly. "Magic has its costs." She shivered. Without thinking, Rick stepped closer, putting himself between her and the breeze racing up the alleyway. "It can be a lonely way of living," Michonne looked at him, a peculiar look of longing passing over her face.

"Yeah," Rick swallowed, his mouth run dry. "I get that." His face felt warm. He attempted to force the blush back down, focusing instead on removing a stray bit of fluff from the end of one of her locs. She smiled gratefully. His blush only deepened.

"There is no one home, awaiting your return?" Michonne asked, teasing. "No southern belle waiting on her beau?"

He let out a bark of surprised laughter, even as a familiar pang clenched at his heart. "Not anymore," he paused. "It's been a few years."

"She passed?" Michonne's question was gentle. She slowed her steps, coming closer to him.

"My wife," he began to explain. "She died one night when I was investigating. Freak accident. Something in her brain, doctor's said it was like a balloon. It popped and-" he broke off. "I wasn't there," he finished. He did not talk about this, not unless he had to. No one in his office had asked about it since it happened.

Michonne reached for him again, clasping her hand around his forearm. Her thumb rubbed a soothing pattern down to his wrist. "I'm sorry," she said simply.

"It was the first night we found one of Dixon's victims." The story tumbled out, unbidden. "He was in jail at the time, on a narcotics charge. When he got out, the murders started again," Rick shook his head. "Took me months to piece together who he was. Been chasing him for even longer."

"We'll catch him," Michonne assured him. "We'll end this." Her hand still lingered on his arm, the fingertips threatening to burn straight through his sleeve. He quelled the urge to reach back for her.

"What about you?" he asked. "The Governor. He knows you."

"Not me personally," Michonne chuckled quietly. "He is familiar with my family. It was us who ended his reign a century and a half ago."

"So he'll be gunning for you now?" Rick looked around, half expecting a ghost.

"He's not a full power, not yet," Michonne explained. "He needs souls to do that. Back in his time, he used charm to win them over. Seems like he's taking a more direct approach now."

"Merle," Rick guessed.

"He won't be too far from him, not when so much is on the line," Michonne confirmed.

"So we stop Merle, we can nip this thing in the bud?" Rick asked.

Michonne smiled, releasing him. "That's what I'm hoping. Then things will go back to normal."

"What even is normal?" Rick asked. "Especially when you're a witch?"

He meant it as a joke, but Michonne looked caught off guard. She blinked in surprise. "Running my hotel," she listed. "Teaching Glenn and Maggie."

"But not your sister?" he pressed.

"No," Michonne shook her head. "Magic has cost Sasha too much."

"What did it cost her?" Rick asked.

"It's not my place to tell," Michonne began to walk away again, putting space between them.

Rick hastened to catch up. "I'm not trying to be nosy. But you're asking me to take a lot on faith, Michonne. You keep saying magic costs you. Well, I'm about to walk into a big old nest of it."

She paused again, clearly debating. "Our parents died young," she disclosed on a sigh. "First my dad, then hers. Then our mama. The death didn't stop when we got older."

A thought occurred to Rick, a piece of the puzzle sliding into place. "A curse?" he asked before he could think better of it.

Michonne nodded. "You could call it that."

"What would you call it?" he asked her.

"Old magic," she said, worrying at her nails.

"Governor old?" he asked.

Michonne scoffed. "What, are you a detective or something?" she evaded, flashing that brilliant smile.

"Considered making it a profession," he deadpanned, momentarily disarmed. "This Governor though, he cursed you? Your whole family?"

Michonne swallowed. "Yes."

Rick's hands went to his waist, his arm brushing the familiar weight of his holster and gun just beneath his jacket. "Alright," he mused. "So we should probably find this guy."

He'd caught her off guard again. She laughed. "Are you going to arrest him?" she teased.

Rick shrugged. "Or kill him. A 200 year old confederate general ain't someone who should be walking around anyways. I don't think anyone will miss him."

Michonne raised a brow. "And Merle? Will anyone miss him?"

Rick licked his lips. "I figured it's enough to start by looking."

"When we find him," Michonne said, "what's the plan?"

"I take him in," Rick answered easily. "Or take him down. But he's not getting away again."

It was enough for her. "Rick," she began carefully. "At the best of times, Merle was dangerous. Now…"

"You saying you don't want to dig me out of a graveyard again?" Rick asked lightly.

Michonne's dark eyes found his. "I'm saying, stick close to me and I won't have to."

"Alright," he agreed. Rick was in no hurry to spend a night fighting off death again. "Where do we start? It's a big city. The Quarter is crawling with cops now. I doubt he'd strike again here."

Michonne smiled, eyes flashing. "That, I can help with." She began to walk again. "Do you mind driving?"

"Not at all," Rick hurried behind her, heading for the car.

Ten minutes later found them on the highway. Michonne had the windows of the SUV rolled all the way down. The wind streamed in, tugging her locs to and fro. She did not seem as though she minded or even noticed. Here eyes were on her hands, spread palms upward in her lap.

"Do you have anything of Merle Dixon's?" she asked Rick. "Something he may have touched."

Rick paused, considering. He reached over her, into the glove compartment. Fumbling for a moment, he recovered a length of fishing line, once tangled around his leg.

"How's this?" he asked, handing it to her.

Michonne nodded, taking it. Her eyes snapped shut. She began to mumble, a curious mix of latin and french. The space in the car seemed to warp, growing hotter, the wind whistling like a hurricane. Rick clung to the wheel, his eyes darting to the cars around them. They all drove on as though nothing was amiss.

He chanced a glance at Michonne. Her skin seemed to be glowing, as though light was emitting from her veins. His breath caught in his chest. It all stopped at once when Michonne opened her eyes, smiling brightly. "The Bayou," she said. "We will find him there."

"Sounds like a place for a snake," Rick said, turning eyes to the road.

"Or two," Michonne agreed. She reached for her hair, braiding it hastily before twisting it into a knot at the top of her head. "You will need to stay close to me," she instructed, looking over at Rick. "Do you have your weapon?"

"My Colt," Rick opened his jacket to show his holster. "But it didn't do much when the asshole was normal."

Michonne snorted. "If you trust me with it, I can change that."

Rick steadied the wheel, opening his jacket wider to her. "Go for it."

Michonne reached over, gingerly removing the gun. She opened it carefully, letting the bullets spill out in her lap. She spread her fingers out over them, starting her chanting again. The words this time were different, spoken hastily in a low tone. Rick longed to watch, keeping his eyes on the road with difficulty.

"Here," Michonne said, loading the bullets in and handing the gun carefully back to him. It didn't look any different.

"You know your way around guns," Rick observed, tucking his Colt back into his holster.

"Well enough for our purposes today," she shrugged. "I'm not much of a gun person."

"Guess you've got other ways of fighting," Rick agreed.

Michonne looked out of the window, her eyes on the scenery. "Take this exit," she instructed. Rick obeyed, steering them into swamp land. "And I prefer not fighting, actually," she glanced over at him, shrugging. "I just happen to be pretty good at it."

She cracked her neck, turning her attention back outward. Rick chuckled to himself.

"So we go in, guns ablazing?" he asked, watching as the SUV kicked up dirt in its wake.

Michonne fixated on a billboard just off the side of the road, the wheels in her head clearly turning. She turned towards him again.

"Have you ever been on a swamp tour, Rick?" she asked, pointing.

Rick grinned. "No. But I've always wanted to take an airboat." He pulled over, angling the car in.

"No time like the present," something mischievous flashed in Michonne's eyes.

"Do we rent one?" Rick asked, wondering how he could justify the cost to the Marshals.

Michonne threw the car door open and stepped out. "I thought I told you," she tossed a wink his way. "There are perks to being Michonne Hawthorne."

Rick watched her walk away, heading straight for the owner. He turned the car off, pausing to enjoy the view.

"I bet there are," he laughed to himself.

-l-l-l-l-l-

In a car parked just outside the Hotel Hawthorne, Glenn and Maggie were huddled. The cold fogged the panes of the vehicle, but the occupants barely noticed, focusing instead on one another.

"Let's just call," Maggie suggested. "Michonne is family. There's nothing to be afraid of."

"Sasha is nothing like Michonne," Glenn reminded her. "And I'm not scared. I'm nervous."

"About what?" Maggie asked, reaching for his hand across the center console.

"I haven't seen in a year. It's been longer since she even came to dinner, or Christmas or-" he swallowed. "After Abraham died, Sasha swore us off."

"She swore off magic," Maggie corrected. "Not her family."

Glenn only sighed. "I don't know what Michonne was thinking."

"She's thinking we've got a magical serial killer and a crazed Governor on the loose. She needs help with this. So we're all going to have to swallow our pride and get this done." Maggie nodded to herself, her mind made up.

Glenn kissed their joined hands. "Alright," he agreed. "Where do we start?"

A knock on the window jolted them both. Startled, they looked out the drivers' side.

"Hey," Sasha waved at them, squinting through the glass. "Thought I'd find you here." She opened the door.

"Sasha," Glenn gaped. "What are you-"

"Stopping you from getting killed," she announced. She shoved unceremoniously at him. "Scoot over. I'm driving." She seemed to notice Maggie at last. "Hey," she threw her hand out. "I've heard a lot about you. Maggie, right?"

"Right," Maggie stammered, releasing Glenn to shake Sasha's hand. "How do you-"

"I've got a plan," Sasha launched into it, looking between the two of them. "I'm going to need some help."

The young couple looked at her in shock. Sasha huffed.

"My sister sent you to watch me, right? She's afraid I'm rusty?" Sasha raised a brow.

"Yeah," Maggie admitted reluctantly.

Sasha shook her head. "Scoot over," she instructed.

"Sasha," Glenn began. "I think whatever it is, we can handle it."

"Oh really?" Sasha asked, clearly amused. "Like you handled the graveyard the other night? Security cameras caught you, clear as day. Lucky I got to the tape before Michonne's Marshal did, or you'd both be sitting in a jail cell somewhere, getting grilled for being accomplices to murder."

This silenced the both of them.

"Now, scoot over," she requested again.

They both complied, scrambling into the backseat. Sasha shut the door with a flick of her wrist.

"Buckle up," she said, throwing the car in drive. "We've got a killer to catch."


	18. AHE: Down in the Bayou

The Bayou hummed around them, a sweet song of crickets chirping, raccoons chittering, the gentle slap of the river and the croaks of bullfrogs. Michonne stared into the murky surface of the water for a moment, observing her hazy reflection.

"You ready?" Rick's voice was low, but he was close enough that she could feel him just behind her.

"Ready," she tilted her lips up in what she hoped was a comforting smile. Not that Rick was in particular need of comforting. Magic might not have been his element, but a manhunt was. He was perfectly at ease as the sun rose higher, the afternoon stretching before them. His skin was tinged with a hint of pink, the first signs of what would surely be a burn. She suddenly felt glad that he wore that hat of his.

"Then let's go," he winked at her. Even in the cool, heavy air between the trees, she felt herself flush. Rick stepped one foot into their boat, reaching for her. Michonne took advantage of the moment, muttering a quick spell to herself to save the US Marshal's considerably paler complexion as their fingers touched. He helped her on board. "Do you by chance know how to drive this?" he asked, settling beside her on the narrow bench.

With a thought, she turned on the metal fan, guiding their vessel out onto the waters. Rick winced at the noise. She laughed, steering them out of range of the boatstand before silencing the still rotating blades with another thought.

"Impressive," Rick observed. "You don't have to do a spell or anything?"

"Not all magic requires spells," she told him, enjoying the breeze as it rifled through her hair.

"Wand?" he pressed.

She laughed all the harder. "No," she clarified. "It's just...the will of the thing is enough most times."

"So then, could anyone be magic?" Rick asked, turning his face away from the scenery to gaze at her.

"Sure," she searched for a way to explain. "Things have the power we assign to them," she said. "Like...your badge."

"My badge?" Rick reached into his jacket for the item. He handed her the wallet, flipping it open. The silver metal caught the light as they glided beneath drooping willows dripping with Spanish moss.

"It's just metal," Michonne turned it over in her palm, smoothing her thumb over it. "But you give it importance. You make this badge what it is. Magic is like that. It can be used for good or for evil to influence the world around you." She handed it back to him.

Rick's hand lingered on hers. "Didn't know you were a philosopher too," he teased.

"Comes with the territory of being a witch," she smiled.

"So if I wanted to learn magic, could you teach me?"

"To an extent," she answered.

"And you said it's passed down from genes. Your mama was one, and grandmama. But what about the men?"

"What about them?" Michonne patiently answered his line of questioning, guiding the boat through the maze of the swamp all the while. They were attracting attention from the Bayou's residents, even with a silent boat. Raccoon and alligators peered curiously at them as they went by, and even a doe glimpsed them for a moment before skittering back into the brush.

"Say we were to have children," Rick hedged. "You're a witch, I'm not. Would our kids have magic?"

The question, asked casually, disarmed her somewhat. "The girls certainly would," Michonne answered, hoping she sounded calmer than she felt.

"No doubt," Rick sensed her humor, grinning. "Poor boys though. They're gonna be just as normal as their daddy."

"Hawthornes aren't known for our sons," Michonne reminded him, laughing.

"Ah well," Rick shrugged. "We could give it a try." He stretched his arms backwards, sliding the sleeves of the jacket she bought him off until he could shrug out of it. He leaned over to drop it behind the bench, shaking out the thick flannel of his shirt. As he adjusted his holster, his shirt rode up at the waist, revealing a sliver of pale, but toned abdomen. Michonne quickly looked away.

She turned instead to the Bayou, focusing her efforts. The Governor and Merle were nearby, she could feel it.

"What happened there?" Rick whispered suddenly, moving closer to her so he could point. "Lightning or something?"

In the midst of the lush green, a grove was blackened and dead, withering into the swampy recesses of the water.

"He's close," Michonne whispered back, slowing the boat until it bobbed along. She edged them in closer.

The tranquil silence of the afternoon was interrupted by a sudden splashing, Both Rick and Michonne looked quickly to their right, farther into the Bayou. A massive pontoon was moving towards them, taking no care to be quiet. Tourists were crushed inside, pointing their cameras outward, hoping for a glimpse of a gator.

"That normal?" Rick asked, moving his gun stealthily to the side, hiding it between them.

"They'll move on soon enough," Michonne said confidently. Still, the noise was making her nervous. "Just wave like everything is ordinary."

Rick raised a hand, giving the boat a friendly acknowledgment. The guide spotted him at once.

"Whew, boy, what do we got here?" he asked loudly through his microphone in a thick cajun accent. "You two need a tow?"

"We're good," Rick assured them, giving them a forced smile.

"What about you, chere?" the guide asked brightly. "You two lovebirds gonna fry floating out here in the sun like this. Better hope the gators don't like barbeque." He laughed heartily, his chuckle echoing over the water. His customers joined him, some even lifting the camera to take pictures.

Rick threw his arm over Michonne's shoulder, blocking them from a clear view. "We're good, I promise," he shouted back, adding in a fake laugh for good measure.

"Well if them gators don't get you, be careful. I was just telling these good folks that these waters are known for witches. Don't want to go stumbling on any, do we?"

Michonne stiffened, irritated. She glanced at the motor of the pontoon, speeding it up with a wink.

"Whoa there," the guide shouted in surprise. "These waters are crazy today. Sit down folks, buckle up."

His group paid him no mind, instead rushing for the edge of the boat. They began to point and shout at once, lifting their cameras.

"It's a crocodile!" someone shouted.

"There's no crocs in these Bayous, 'cept for the shoes," the guide deadpanned. "Might just be a big ol' alligator." He leaned over to look.

"Michonne," Rick hissed suddenly. "I don't know much about New Orleans, but that doesn't look right to me."

She peered from around him. It took her only a moment to see it. Cruising below the waters, silhouetted, was a crocodile that could give Jaws a run for his money.

"Is that something Merle would do?" she asked urgently, already drawing on her strength.

"A giant fucking crocodile?" Rick asked. "Yeah, that's something that dumb shit would do."

"I need you to hold on tight, Rick," Michonne drew in a deep breath.

Rick reached forward, gripping the bench. "What are you gonna-"

His question got lost as Michonne reached out, tugging at the beast with enough force to send it careening back. It recovered quickly, yanking them forward. The tourists began to scream in earnest aboard the boat.

"What the everlovin' hell?" the guide yelled. He began to throw his vessel in reverse, maneuvering the massive craft around at the speed of molasses in January.

"You want me to shoot it?" Rick asked, clinging to the side as the boat thrashed backwards and forwards with the force of the crocodile.

Michonne gritted her teeth, holding on. "No," she managed. "Merle, he can't be far. He's not skilled enough to do this from a distance."

"No skilled enough, huh?" Merle's wheezing laugh echoed. "Haven't you heard, darling? I'm a serial killer!"

Something rammed their boat with enough force to break Michonne's hold. The crocodile shot like a bat out of hell towards the tour boat. Without hesitation, Michonne dove in after it.

"Fuck!" she could hear Rick cursing up a storm above the surface of the water, but she didn't break stride, propelling herself forward. Even in the brown water, she could see the outline of the crocodile's great spiked tail. She reached out, grabbing hold. At her touch, the mummer's farce of an animal went up in flames. It glowed a brilliant orange, spreading from tail to tip. In seconds, it was not more than ash, drifting harmlessly to the bottom of the river.

Michonne resurfaced to be met with looks of abject shock from the whole of the boat and Rick alike.

"Holy shit," the guide whistled into his mic. "That's a genuine witch, folks."

It was Merle's turn to curse. From somewhere unseen, he let out an inhuman howl. His rage sent the pontoon spinning like a rubber duck in the bath. Michonne raised her hands to steady it before it ran aground. With a grunt, she forced it back up the river, away from the fight.

"Damn bitch," Merle lamented. "You ruin everything."

From the airboat, Rick whipped his head around, spotting his enemy in the distance.

"Michonne," he yelled for her, pointing. She saw him gathering himself, tossing his hat to the wayside, preparing to jump.

Michonne propelled him forward like a dart, clearing the path for him. Merle shouted again.

"You ain't playing fair, Miss bitchy witchy," he crowed. "Guess I gotta bring in my teammate too."

Michonne lifted her hand to level Merle with a blow that would shut him up, but another voice interrupted them.

"Well hello there," cultured southern tones assaulted her ears. "Michonne was it?"

She spun in the water, treading. Someone had joined them from the shore, a tall, pale man. He was grinning, the very swamp beneath his feet dying with his every breath.

"Governor," it came out as half a snarl.

"You know," he grinned, eyes going scarlet. "You look just like your great aunties."

-l-l-l-l-l-

Rick emerged gasping on the other side of the swamp, at least 100 meters from where he'd first jumped in. He chanced a glance over his shoulder, noticing Michonne still bobbing in the water. Even from a distance, she looked like a nymph, commanding the elements around her with flawless precision.

"Ohhhh weee," Merle chortled. "Someone's got a little crush, huh Officer Friendly?"

Rick looked up, spotting Merle ahead, hidden among the trees. He hastened towards him, drawing his Colt.

"That ain't do much the first time, remember?" Merle taunted. "Just got your ass kicked in a damn graveyard. Or did you forget?" He ducked behind a tree and out of sight. Rick reached it, leveling his Colt, but Merle had disappeared.

Something hit Rick hard from the side, nearly knocking his feet out from under him.

"So damn cocky," Merle lamented. "Guess we need to teach you that lesson again."

He hit Rick a second time before disappearing, his laugh echoing around him as though from all sides. Another blast sent Rick flying, sliding through the mud and grime ankle deep. Merle laughed in earnest.

"Ain't got your chickadee to come help you, do you now?" he taunted. "Pretty little thing has got her hands full, I'm afraid."

He struck again and Rick stumbled backwards, grunting in pain.

"Now that's more like it," Merle grinned, advancing.

-l-l-l-l-l-

"You know," The Governor walked towards Michonne over the water as though it were stone. "It took three of them to put me down, and as you can see," he gestured to himself. "It was only temporary." The Governor raised a hand, drawing Michonne out of the water as though with an invisible fist. "What makes you think you can do better?"

Michonne shut her eyes, quelling her fear. With laser-sharp focus, she struck out, aiming straight for the Governor's heart. He yelled, dropping her, but she caught herself before she went back under, moving for shallow waters. Before he could recover, she hit him again, tossing one of the blackened trees he had killed directly at him. It swung like a baseball bat, its charred bark hitting her adversary with a satisfying smack. He went flying, but quickly righted himself.

"Not bad," the Governor wiped blood away from his mouth, reaching in his pocket for a handkerchief. "Not bad at all, Miss Hawthorne."

He flicked it. The forest around them ignited, smoke clouding the air. The animals, previously hidden, began to panic, all of them running, diving for the water in frantic piles.

Michonne gathered the river beneath her, raising her hands. The elements followed her command, extinguishing the flames. It was not until she released it that she realized the Governor was right in front of her.

"You witches are so predictable," he snarled, striking her with the palm of his hand.

-l-l-l-l-l-

Rick heard Michonne's startled scream even through the ringing in his ears. He sat up, spitting muck away from his face.

"Uh oh," Merle gasped, grasping imaginary pearls. "Sounds like your lady love is in trouble."

Rick swung out, managing to connect. Merle yelped, moving away.

"You can't save her if you're chasing me, Officer Friendly." Merle struck out again, lightning quick like a cobra. Rick's vision ran red. "I don't think you can save her at all," he goaded, bearing down on him.

A sudden thought occurred to Rick. Grappling in his shirt pocket, Rick drew out his badge and thrust it forward. It hit Merle right in his outstretched hand.

The effect was instantaneous. A burst of light exploded at the contact. A searing sound filled the air and Merle began to scream, the skin of his hand burned clear away. He retreated, but his movements were slower.

Without hesitation, Rick raised his Colt and fired.

-l-l-l-l-l-

The sound of the gun was unmistakable, even through the cacophony around her, Michonne honed it on it, clearing her mind.

The Governor was on top of her, holding her below the surface of the water. Michonne lashed out, but her attacks fell to the wayside like he was shooing a fly. The Governor's face was above her, split into a cruel smile.

"Should have tried this the first time," he chuckled. "It's a much quicker way to end that damned line of yours."

Anger filled her. The Governor noticed.

"How many of you have witches killed over the years?" he asked. "I'm curious. Your daddy for sure, I'd wager. But how many have you lost?"

Mike. His face came to her mind, young, untroubled, idealistic. She hadn't believed in the curse, not then, not really. Then Mike got in a motorcycle accident one night coming to meet her. It hadn't been rainy, he hadn't been drunk, and no one else was around. The police said there was no one to blame. That was a lie.

Michonne relaxed her body, shutting her eyes until she went limp. The Governor pushed her down even further.

"That's right," he soothed in a voice like a lullaby. "It ain't worth the fight, girl."

She waited until her back hit the soft ground beneath her, The Governor pushed harder still, leaning over her. Michonne struck as quickly as she could, palm out, fingers curled. She prayed her aim was true. The Governor's eye came out clean as a whistle. She evaporated it in her hand, determined to turn the rest of him to dust as well.

He screamed above her, releasing her. He began to thrash in the shallow water. Michonne sat up, panting.

"You were made from ashes," she began, releasing the fistful of flakes. "And to ashes you will return."

For one sweet moment, she saw terror register on the Governor's face. Then, from the forest, his acolyte began to scream.

In a gust of wind, the Governor fled.

-l-l-l-l-l-

"You can't kill me, Grimes. Face it," Merle spat, crawling away from him. The wet mud beneath him ran crimson with his blood.

"You sure about that?" Rick asked, pursuing. "Cause it looks like you're dying, Dixon."

"I ain't the one limpin'," Merle countered.

"Nah," Rick agreed, cocking his gun. "Just crawling."

Merle looked up at him, grinning that ugly, crooked smile. "Feels good, don't it?" he asked. "Holding the power like that. Ready to take a life. No better feeling in the whole damn world. Better even than that chickadee you got back there. Didn't take you for the kind to mix, Grimes."

Rick said nothing, only pulled the trigger, shooting Merle in the leg as he attempted to stand up. He cursed.

"Well kill me then!" Merle demanded.

Rick hesitated. It would be easy to put Merle down like a dog in the mud out here. But Rick never had been much for doing the easy thing.

"Merle Dixon," he began calmly. "You're under arrest."

Merle laughed all the harder. "You gotta be kidding me. Officer Friendly to the end." He looked above Rick's head. "Should have killed me when you had the chance."

The winds hit like a hurricane, knocking the pair of men flat to the ground. Rick knew instinctively, that the Governor had arrived.

"Bout time you showed up," Merle crowed. "I'm bleeding to death here!" He thrust his hand out. "Need some help."

Help was not forthcoming. Instead, the wind funneled upwards, taking Merle with him. He raised ten feet straight up in the air, then came crashing down into the mud, a limp, bleeding pile. The wind whipped away faster, leaving the Bayou silent, and Merle, unconscious, behind.

"Rick!" Michonne called his name, relief palpable in her voice. She rushed to him, helping him up from the ground. She had his hat, but Rick barely noticed. She was soaking wet with large, ugly welts forming over her slender neck. Rick reached for her at once, touching them.

"What happened?" he questioned.

Michonne clasped his hand. "The coward ran away," she spat. She turned her eyes to Merle. "And he took his magic with him."

From a few yards away, Merle groaned, wiggling feebly.

"You'd better finish your arrest," Michonne said, bending to touch Rick's swollen ankle. It healed at once. "I'll clean up the mess back here." She offered him a strained smile before retreating, heading back to the water's edge.

Rick turned away from her with difficulty, walking instead towards Merle. He bent, handcuffing him behind his back. The click of the metal cuffs left a satisfaction Rick had rarely felt before.

"You need me to read you the rest of your rights?" Rick asked, the limp and bleeding killer. "Or do you got 'em memorized by now?'

"Fuck you," Merle groaned.

Rick sighed. "You have the right to remain silent..." he began, hauling Merle to his feet.

-l-l-l-l-l-

Michonne had just managed to put the Bayou largely back to rights when Rick emerged, dragging Merle behind him. The trees where the Governor stood were blackened beyond saving, a desolate desert in the midst of the swamp. Michonne wondered whether anything might ever grow there again.

"Do you have him?" she asked, looking back at the two men.

"He's not going anywhere," Rick assured her. He holstered his weapon. With his free hand, he tilted her chin up, inspecting the bruises. "He touched you," Rick's voice was filled with venom.

"I pulled his eye out," she informed him, gently pushing Rick's hand down. She looked at Merle. His right palm was burned beyond recognition, a familiar star shape imprinted there. "The badge?" she asked, impressed.

"Guess you were right," Rick grinned.

Michonne drew the airboat towards them, this time helping Rick into it with his captive. They stowed Merle at the base.

"I'll heal that hand when we get back," she told Rick lowly, pushing Merle into unconsciousness with a nudge of her mind. "That might draw questions."

Rick scoffed. "Don't waste it on Dixon," he told her. His eyes found her neck again. "Take care of yourself."

"I'm ok," she promised, sitting beside him. The motor started up again, silently propelling them away. Michonne took a moment to inspect her partner. She laid her hand over a particularly nasty gash on his forehead, sealing it shut.

"Yeah?" Rick gathered her wet locs, tossing them behind her shoulder so he could get a better look at her. Satisfied that the Governor had done no permanent damage, he released her, pausing only to drop his hat on her head.

"Yeah," she promised. She was exhausted and still reeling, but she was alive. Better than that, she knew now that the Governor could be injured. Perhaps he could even be killed.

"Then I'm ok too," Rick told her. With a sigh, he settled in next to her. "We're gonna need a week-long bath after this," he muttered, tugging at his wet and mud-slicked flannel in disgust.

Michonne shook her head, hiding her smile.

"You really pulled out his eye?" Rick asked.

"Turned it to dust," Michonne said with satisfaction.

"So we caught one killer and half-blinded the other," Rick recounted. "It ain't a bad start."

Michonne sighed. "Let's hope it's enough," she whispered, steering back towards the car.


	19. AHE: What Are You Afraid Of?

**A/N: Thank you again for reading! Please look for an update of the third and final block next week. Again, check out msdoomandgloom on Twitter, IG, and Tumblr, and review to let us know what you think. Enjoy!**

* * *

Rick slowed the SUV in the back alleyway behind the Hotel Hawthorne. He looked over at his passenger. Open windows on the highway had done much to dry Michonne's hair, but her outfit had seen better days. It was clinging to her, adhering to the muscles and curves like a second skin. He should probably look away, and make a serious effort to not look at Michonne this way.

Rick was pretty sure he was fighting a losing battle on that front.

"I'll see you in a bit," he told her, offering her a lopsided grin. "Gotta process this asshole."

They both glanced back at Merle, slumped over in the backseat of the car. Michonne unhooked her seatbelt and swung her body around. Leaning, she reached over the center console. Rick streadied her with a hand on her back.

"Thanks," she glanced at him before turning to Merle. She healed his mangled hand, but left the bullet holes.

"Thank you," Rick helped her back into the front seat. "You just saved me a bunch of paperwork."

Michonne chuckled. "He's not going to remember me," she told Rick. "Or the Governor. He's only going to remember hiding out in the swamp, and you coming to get him."

"Makes sense," Rick furrowed his brow. "You can do that? Take someone's memories just like that?"

Michonne tilted her head, observing him. "Just because it's easy doesn't mean I do it all of the time, Rick," she reminded him.

"Right," he nodded flushing, feeling somehow as though he'd been found out.

Michonne opened her door, preparing to step out. "For the record, Marshal," she turned back to look at him. "I'm not planning on erasing any of your memories of me." She reached for his hand, giving it a squeeze on top of the steering wheel. "I'll see you soon," she smiled.

Rick watched her walk up the path and duck into her hotel. Exhaling, he started the car again, heading for the precinct. As he drove, he connected his phone to bluetooth, dialing his captain's number.

"Please tell me you have good news," Aaron answered on the second ring.

"I don't know if it's good news," Rick began. "But I've got a serial killer handcuffed in the back of the car you let me borrow."

Aaron released a breath, his gasp morphing quickly into a laugh. "Thank God, Rick. Shit- He's alive?"

"Got a hole or two in him," Rick said. "But he's alive. Found him in the damn swamp."

"Sounds right," Aaron groused. "You're ok?"

"I'm filthy," Rick answered. "You're gonna need a good interior cleaner. I didn't have a towel to put down."

"At least you didn't total it," Aaron snorted.

"Give me time," Rick said.

"Haha," Aaron said without humor. "So you'll process him, then we'll start working on getting him back to Georgia. You did good Grimes." Aaron sounded proud. "Time to come on home."

That thought hung in the air for a moment. Rick glanced in his rearview mirror, back down the street towards the hotel. "I was thinking, Captain…"

"Rick," Aaron became exasperated at once. "We talked about this."

"His accomplice, whoever he was, might still be down here," Rick pressed. "But to be honest, I think I need a break, Aaron."

This last statement caught his captain off guard. "What do you mean?" Aaron asked cautiously.

"I ain't had a vacation in two years. And New Orleans ain't a bad place when you're not stomping around in waist-high muck. Kinda thinking I'd like to see it."

"Are you serious?" Aaron asked, positively gobsmacked.

"Yeah," Rick shrugged, trying for nonchalance. "I'm sure I could find something to do. Might be nice to sleep in for a start."

Silence was his only answer for a beat. Then Aaron spoke again. "Yeah...I guess there's no harm in that. You earned a break."

"I'll just consult with NOLA PD while I'm here," Rick said. "Spend the rest of the time getting my head straight."

Aaron made a sound low in his throat. "Did something happen?"

"What do you mean?" Rick asked, turning towards the station. "I caught a damn serial killer."

"Did you meet someone?" Aaron pried.

'Met plenty of someones," Rick evaded.

"You know what I mean, Grimes. Look, I remember how you were before you got married. You think you're slick with this-"

"What are you talking about?" Rick scoffed.

"Just...don't say any dumb shit around her, ok?" Aaron cautioned.

"You saying I say dumb shit?" Rick asked, feigning insult.

"Around women you like, yes." Aaron didn't pull any punches. "And if she's a cop-"

"She's not," Rick copped to the truth. "She owns the hotel I'm at." He stopped talking before he could divulge too much.

"Hmm," Aaron came up short. "All right, well, I guess go for it then."

"Thanks, boss," Rick said sarcastically, the back of his neck going red.

"I'm just saying, this is a good thing. Just be yourself. Except maybe don't make any damn dad jokes."

"Don't you gotta be a dad to make dad jokes?" Rick asked.

"I thought so," Aaron sighed. "Then I met you."

"I'll call you when they've got Dixon locked up," Rick held in his laugh.

"Alright," Aaron said. "Sounds good. And Grimes?"

"Be careful?" Rick asked knowingly.

"Have fun," Aaron said. "You deserve it."

"Yeah," Rick mused, "I'll try."

-l-l-l-l-l-

Michonne paused on the stairs, watching Rick in the lobby. He was inspecting her trinkets. He paused at the piano, watching it play itself. Michonne smiled, changing the tune with a wink. Rick jumped in surprise as it started to play the Imperial March loudly.

"Can I help you with something, sir?" she teased, pausing at the desk.

Rick blushed, his ears running scarlet. He straightened up quickly, clearing his throat. "I didn't think you'd be working," he grumbled out, rubbing the back of his neck.

"No rest for the weary," she deadpanned, pausing in front of him. He was still damp from a shower, the wet tendrils of his curls pushed back. Michonne reached for him, tugging a twig out of the ends. "The swamp doesn't wash out easy," she smiled.

Rick's blush deepened. "I think I'm going to need magic to ever be really clean again."

"You're in the right place," Michonne said. She dissolved the twig in her hand, laughing lightly at Rick's wide-eyed response. "Did you get everything figured out at work?" she asked.

He nodded. "I did," Rick tugged at his tan cotton Henley. "Merle Dixon is going away for life." he sighed, amending his statement. "After a trial."

"Still, you got your man," Michonne smiled. "How does it feel?"

Rick considered this. "Don't know," he admitted. "Been gunning for him for so long, and now it's just over." He shuffled his feet. "I'm glad he's not out there killing."

Michonne watched him. "Do you wish you would have killed him?" she asked. It was not a foreign feeling to her. Evil men too often did not get their comeuppance on Earth. Merle had certainly earned a worse fate than Rick had dealt him.

Rick let out a mirthless chuckle. "Maybe a part of me does, if I'm being honest." He looked at her. "But most of me is satisfied that he's going to rot in prison for the rest of his life. I hope it's a long one."

"Maybe you can put this behind you now, go home. Restart your life," the thought was bittersweet. Rick would be returning to his life soon, whatever that entailed. She would miss his unshakeable presence.

"Maybe," Rick ventured. He smiled at her crookedly. "I was actually wondering something first."

Michonne looked at him expectantly, trying to contain her grin as Rick went more red in the face by the second.

"I wanted to see if you were hungry," he said, a bit too fast. "Because I'm starving and I thought you might be. And if you're working, that's ok. I just-" he took a breath. "Wanted to see if you'd want to eat." he paused. "With me," he concluded.

The piano's song shifted again, playing one of Michonne's favorites. The Ella Fitzgerald tune echoed in the lobby. Her guests went by, continuing about their business, dressed in costumes, clutching drinks, laughing together, all blissfully unaware of the tension spreading between the US Marshal and the owner of the establishment.

"You don't have to pack to go?" Michonne asked. She ought to insist he do just that, head for the hills and safer pastures.

"No," Rick shook his head. "I'm not going nowhere just yet."

Michonne considered, a lump forming somewhere in the pit of her stomach. "Let me finish up down here, and I can meet you at my suite," she said, pushing aside her misgivings.

"I don't want you to have to cook," Rick began to protest.

"It's easy," she winked at him. "I'll show you."

"Alright," he agreed. "At least let me help down here."

Decorating for Halloween festivities was considerably easier with a partner. Rick held each item up as Michonne enchanted them, draping her lobby in faux spiderwebs and dried flowers. The piano changed its tune to something spooky, an old dirge.

"There's a party here tomorrow?" Rick asked.

"Our biggest day of the year besides Mardi Gras," Michonne nodded.

"But with the Governor here," Rick wet his lips, pushing aside an empty box as Michonne set prop potions bottles out. "Is this safe?"

"Sasha's on watch," Michonne said. "And Glenn and Maggie. We'll figure something out." She had a plan, though the others were unaware, a fail safe found in the pages of her family's book. She put the thought aside quickly.

Rick nodded, letting the subject drop. Michonne could tell it bothered him still. He was silent as she led him upstairs and through her door. She was hyper aware of his presence behind her, so close that his jean-clad leg kept brushing the fabric of her skirt. He paused to scratch Virgil behind the ears as he entered.

"Make yourself comfortable," Michonne invited, pushing a stool towards him as she headed for the cupboards. Rick sat, watching her as she began to stack things on the counter. She set a bowl of fruit in front of him. "From my garden," she explained.

"Thanks," Rick inspected the apples and pomegranates. "They look great."

"So," Michonne ventured. "When are you heading home? You must miss Georgia."

He chuckled again in surprise. "Not really," he admitted. "New Orleans has a charm to it."

"When people aren't trying to murder you," Michonne laughed lightly. "It's safer back home."

Rick fixed her with a hard stare, his eyes narrowing. "I ain't leaving yet," he told her. "You forgot you got a 200-year old Confederate Governor after you?"

"After me," Michonne pointed out.

"Thought we agreed we were gonna do this together," Rick mused, pausing his fidgeting.

"I thought you had to get back, check in," she countered.

"I will eventually," Rick shrugged. "Told my boss I needed a break. He jumped at the opportunity to let me stay. He figures it's a good sign."

"You should take that break, Rick," Michonne urged. "We can handle it here."

"I'm sure you can," Rick agreed readily. He turned his attention back to the bowl, skirting his fingers over its contents. He paused at a pomegranate before selecting an apple. "But I'm not leaving you," he took a bite, the juice gathering at the corner of his lips before he licked it away. "At least not until this is over."

"I couldn't ask you to do that," Michonne insisted.

"You're not," Rick assured her, smiling. He took another bite. A change had come over him since they'd emerged from the Bayou, a sense of relief that was palpable. He looked almost happy, certainly content. The scent of sandalwood soap clung to him. He was relaxed, his gun set aside in lieu of an unassuming cotton shirt and jeans. For a moment, she envied him.

"I know you hurt him pretty bad today," if Rick noticed her borderline salacious stare, he charitably did not comment on it. "But how do we end it?"

With difficulty, Michonne turned her mind back to the subject at hand. "There's a ritual. My ancestors trapped him once with it. It will work again." Her strength had grown considerably over the last few days. She prayed it would be enough to subdue the Governor.

"And it'll kill him?" Rick asked thoughtfully, chewing away.

"Bind him," she explained. Her aunts had taken diligent notes in the wake of the Governor's first attack. Michonne supposed that she could manage it.

"But then he could come back," Rick's brow furrowed.

"To kill him, we would need to take his magic," Michonne explained. "And that can only be done with what gave him the power in the first place. You saw with Merle.

"Sure," Rick didn't looked fussed. "So what gave this asshole his power?"

Michonne laughed despite herself. "A potion, according to my ancestors' records. It could probably be recreated, but it's a lot of guesswork. And potions making was never my strongest skill. Sasha was the potion master."

"Seems like it's a good thing you two are reconnecting then," Rick observed.

Michonne stayed silent. It was difficult to look at Rick, difficult to hear his earnest opinions. "Rick, you really should go home."

He stood up, setting the remainder of his apple down on a napkin. "You don't want me here?" he asked, tilting his head at her.

The lie would not come. She settled on a half-truth, "It's dangerous," she told him.

He stepped closer, coming around the barrier between them. "I'm not afraid of the Governor," he promised, lips quirking.

"He's not the only thing to be afraid of," she warned. Michonne began to tremble, though for fear or longing she could not decide.

"Who else?" Rick's steps kept coming, slowly, until he was just a few feet in front of her. "You?" he asked.

She tilted her chin up, stilling her shaking. "Yes," she answered.

"Well," Rick crept closer still. "That is a problem. Because even though you're scary as hell in a fight, Michonne Hawthorne, I ain't afraid of you." He paused, half a step away from her. "We made a good team today, didn't we?"

Michonne nodded, her mouth run suddenly dry. Perhaps Rick was not afraid, but fear was flooding into her, dampening her sense. She ought to move back, ought to force him to leave. She stayed still.

"I think you could use my help, even if you don't want it," Rick said.

"Rick, you don't know what you're asking," Michonne sighed, distressed.

"Maybe I don't," he admitted. "But I know one thing. You and me, the two of us?" He paused, regarding her as though he'd never met anyone quite like her. "We can get this done. But you gotta be honest with me."

"I have been," she protested, gripping the edge of the counter. "I've answered every question you've asked."

"Then answer just one more," he suggested gently. He stepped closer still, crowding her. The heat of him was searing, warmer even than his first night in her bed. It seemed like it was ages ago."What are you afraid is gonna happen if I stay, Michonne?"

Michonne drew in a short, clipped breath. "The curse," it was half a whisper, the very word causing her stomach to clench.

"Yeah," Rick leaned toward her, his voice a low rumble. "I thought it might be that." He extended his arm at his side, the back of his palm brushing hers. "I kinda figure we can beat that too, if you wanted to." His eyes found hers, piercing in the low light.

Michonne froze for a beat, her heart pounding in her ears. Her fingers touched his, twisting together tightly before she could even register the movement. Rick inhaled, moving forward until his forehead rested against hers.

"Rick, you don't understand," she began. She clutched his arm, intending to push him away. Rick did not budge.

"I'm not afraid," he told her, closing the distance between them.

His lips were warm, firm, the taste of him intoxicating, even in that brief moment. Michonne gasped, leaning back, gathering herself. They locked eyes for a long moment.

"Michonne," Rick called to her. "I ain't afraid," he repeated. He cupped her face, drawing his thumb down the curve of her jaw.

She had hundreds of reasons to disengage, each as practical as the next. They all fled her mind. Rick's proximity felt natural, his presence comforting.

"Rick," she exhaled, tugging at the hem of his shirt.

Rick drew her closer still. "Come here," he requested.

The next kiss was just as gentle, his touch feather light. He tasted of the apple from her garden, sweet and crisp and cool. Michonne parted her lips for him. Rick seized the opportunity, deepening their embrace. Her fingers curled around his biceps. He responded by trailing his hand down her waist, clutching at her until she gasped outright.

"Michonne," he ground out in her ear, trailing sucking kisses down her neck. His palms found the curves of her hips and ass and he squeezed, coaxing a breathless gasp from her.

Michonne drew him back down, threading her fingers in his damp curls. He held her tightly, kissing her soundly in her kitchen, all thoughts of dinner, of the Governor, of the curse forgotten. Heat grew between them, stoked by wandering hands, by the feel of his lips, by his hardened body pressed flush against hers.

A sudden understanding hit Michonne, her dreams coming into sharper focus. She and Rick were on a collision course, their fates inextricably tied. She pulled back from him, needing a breath, needing a moment of clarity. Rick exhaled shakily, smiling at her.

"Shit, Michonne," he blinked in surprise. "What the hell is going on here?" he asked, chuckling.

Michonne looked at him, dancing her fingers across his bearded chin and cheeks. She traced the elegant curve of his nose, his full lips, the lines around his eyes as he squinted at her.

"I dreamed of you," she told him quietly. "Even before you came."

Rick pulled her closer, his fingers digging into her waist. "Good dreams?" he questioned, kissing her gently again.

"I don't know," she admitted, her lips still brushing his. "Rick, I don't know."

His mouth covered hers, all tentativeness gone. He kissed her with fervor, until Michonne felt weak in his arms. She slumped forward against him, allowing Rick to hold her up.

"Seems worth finding out," he muttered, pulling back to smile at her. "Don't you think?"

Michonne searched for an answer, heart racing, mind reeling. She opened her mouth to respond. The sound of the door to the suite opening interrupted them both. She spun on her heel, hair swinging.

Sasha, Glenn, and Maggie trooped into the kitchen, each ladened with bags. Glenn's arms were stuffed with books. All three stopped, looking at Rick and Michonne with wide eyes.

"Good," Sasha said lightly, ignoring their compromising position. "We need to talk."

She came inside, setting her bags down on the counter. Her eyes did not miss Rick's hands still around Michonne's waist. She threw her sister a knowing look. Michonne avoided her eyes, looking instead at Maggie. The young woman's expression was poorly concealed, one part elated, one part smug. Michonne looked at the ground instead. She reached for Rick's hand, hoping he'd pull away and spare them the embarrassment. Rick, by contrast, didn't seem ruffled in the slightest. It was Glenn who broke the tension, playing the familiar role of peacekeeper.

"Hey man," Glenn stepped up, extending a hand at Rick. "We've met but you don't remember. I'm-"

"The kid on the security video," Rick answered, squinting at Glenn. He released Michonne to shake Glenn's hand.

"Glenn," the young man answered. "That's Maggie. We heard you caught Merle. Good job."

Maggie waved shyly from beside Glenn. Rick nodded at both of them, reluctantly tucking his hand in his pocket.

"We need to talk," Sasha said, bending down to scoop Virgil off the ground.

"Yes," Michonne agreed, cheeks burning. "We do."


	20. AHE- Hallow's Eve Eve

**A/N: Thank you for all the kind words, amazing feedback, and for reading and sharing this story and its amazing art! Check out msdoomandgloom wherever fandoms can be found to see the stunning illustrations. **

**Happy Holidays!**

* * *

"We have one shot at this," Sasha explained, her arms folded over her chest. "One shot to take this guy out before he gets more powerful than ever."

Michonne was at Rick's side, her leg pressed against his on the couch. Rick was doing his best to focus on the matter at hand, but he could feel the echo of her touch on his skin, her hands in his hair, the taste of her lips. It was all he could seem to think about. Glenn and Maggie kept stealing furtive looks at him, delight poorly disguised on both of their faces. Michonne, for her part, seemed content to ignore them completely, all of her attention on her sister.

"You think you could recreate the potion?" Michonne asked, leaning forward.

"Some of the trees in your garden are hundreds of years old. It's possible that the original potion came from them. It's a long shot." Sasha busied herself with petting the cat in her lap.

There was clearly something between the sisters that was not being addressed. The tension was uncomfortable, made worse by the fact that Michonne's family had walked in on them. Rick met Sasha's eyes from across the room. She stared back, her expression unreadable.

"What about the party?" Glenn asked. "Hundreds of people are going to be here tomorrow. Not to mention the parade."

"They could get hurt, especially if the Governor shows up," Maggie scooted closer to Glenn.

"The Governor will assuredly show up here tomorrow," Michonne did not sound worried in the slightest. Rick looked curiously at her. She laid a hand on his leg. The touch sent a shock through him, his blood heating at once.

"So what's the plan?" Rick asked, looking at Michonne.

Glenn and Maggie looked interested in the answer to this question as well. Sasha, however, turned her gaze to Rick.

"You should go home," Sasha looked at him. "Before you get hurt."

Rick opened his mouth to respond but was beaten to the punch.

"I mean," Glenn's voice surprised Rick, his words even more so. "He's held his own so far. Michonne said he took down Merle."

"With her help," Sasha pointed out, nodding her head in Michonne's direction.

"I was fighting the Governor," Michonne clarified calmly. "Rick can handle himself."

"I'm not saying you're not tough," Sasha looked back at him, her tone softening just the slightest. "But this is different. This is magic."

Rick opened his mouth to defend himself, but was cut off again.

"You haven't practiced in years," Glenn countered. "If anything, Rick's seen more magic this year than you have."

Beside him, Michonne shifted. Rick sensed the tide taking a hard turn. He hastened to speak. "We've been through this," he said as calmly as he was able. "I ain't leaving. Not until this is done. Michonne helped me get my man. I'm helping her."

"Rick's staying," Michonne said, daring anyone to contradict her. "We need everyone we can."

Sasha glowered for a moment. She looked to Maggie. The young woman only shrugged. "It's going to take all of us," Maggie pointed out.

Sasha sighed. "Fine," she said. She stood up, still holding the cat. "You two should get some rest. I'll take first watch."

Michonne nodded, her mind clearly elsewhere. A tiny divot was forming between her eyebrows and her lips were beginning to purse. Rick wondered if Sasha could tell that her sister had some scheme forming, or whether years of separation had made them strangers.

"Maggie and I will be in the garden," Glenn said. "We'll figure this out, Michonne. We promise."

Michonne smiled gratefully, reaching for the younger man. "We will," she affirmed. She stood as well, looking at her sister. Something unspoken passed between them. Sasha walked to the door, pausing at the threshold. Rick watched, wondering again about Michonne's past, about her life beyond their time together.

"You ok?" he asked her lowly, his hand flexing as he resisted reaching for her.

She smiled at him, looking at him fondly. "I'm fine," she said. "We all are."

"Want me to go back to my room?" he asked cautiously. "Or I can keep watch too-"

"Stay," she said simply. "I'll be back."

Rick hid his smile as the sisters disappeared through the door out into the hallway. He watched them go, missing Michonne beside him already.

"So," Glenn began, starling Rick. He was clearly trying not to burst with excitement. "You and Michonne, huh?"

Rick looked at him, holding in a sigh. It wasn't the young couple's fault at all, but they'd wandered into Michonne's kitchen at the worst possible moment. He straightened up, mustering the friendliest tone he could, even as he ignored their question in lieu of one of his own. "You two were at the graveyard that night, right? The footage was erased though," Rick said.

To their credit, neither bothered to deny it.

"Sasha," Maggie explained. "We were there trying to do something for Michonne."

"I figured," Rick nodded. He had a million questions, but only one seemed critical. "And you're witches too?"

"Yup," Glenn answered. "Michonne's mom took me in, when I was just a kid. The powers...kinda freaked a few of my foster parents out. Cycled around until I got here." Glenn said this all with the air of a person discussing the weather.

Maggie reached for him. "I came later. Met Glenn in college. Realized we had a few things in common."

Glenn grinned, kissing her hand. Rick felt a funny kind of affection for them.

"You've known Michonne a long time then," Rick observed.

"Honorary members of the family," Maggie said.

"But there's no curse for you two?" Rick asked.

They shook their heads. Another silence spread between them.

"I thought so," Rick observed. He felt tired again.

"The curse," Glenn started. "It doesn't affect everyone. Michonne's grandma had a sister with a wife. They lived a long time."

Rick chuckled in surprise. "Guessing a Confederate general didn't really consider that possibility," he mused, grinning as he looked down at his hands.

Glenn laughed along with him, "Guess not," he ventured.

"I think it's really sweet, you and Michonne" Maggie ventured. "Michonne, she doesn't trust a lot of people."

"She trusts you though," Glenn imparted.

"Guess so," Rick's eyes wandered to the door. He could hear the gentle sound of both Sasha and Michonne's voices speaking quickly. He knew Sasha had reservations about he and Michonne, hesitations that went deeper than the norm. "The curse," Rick said suddenly, turning to Glenn and Maggie. "Do you think it's permanent?"

They both colored at once, their eyes falling. "If it isn't," Glenn hazarded, "we could break it by killing the Governor."

Rick nodded. "That's what I was thinking," he said. He flexed his hands, setting them back down in his lap. "Do you think she's got a plan to kill him?"

Maggie nodded. "Knowing Michonne, she's had a plan for a while."

"Whether she tells us is the trick," Glenn said.

The trio halted conversation, listening to the low murmur of the sister's voices through the door.

-l-l-l-l-l-

"It's not smart," Sasha said, crossing her arms over her chest.

"I'm not saying it is," Michonne didn't bother to argue. There was no point that Sasha could present that Michonne herself had not already mulled over. There were a million reasons to keep Rick at bay. The fact was, she was tired of that life.

"So you're just gonna cuddle up with him? Are you willing to risk him like that?" Sasha asked, surprised. She dropped Virgil the cat, allowing the animal to streak away, back towards where Glenn and Maggie were seated with Rick. "I thought we had an agreement. I thought we weren't going to do that anymore." Sasha swallowed, clearly upset.

"Sasha," Michonne sighed. "It really isn't your business."

"That's what I told you when I started dating Abraham." Sasha reminded her. "He died. Same as Bob. Same as Mike. Same as my dad, and yours, and our grandfather-"

"Because of the Governor," Michonne stressed. "Because of what he took from us." Michonne inhaled, trying to calm herself. "I'm sick of this," she admitted. "Aren't you? Living on eggshells, keeping everyone at arm's length."

Sasha blinked away tears. "It keeps them alive," she said quietly. "We agreed. We agreed it was worth it."

"I thought it was," Michonne said. "But it's all changing now. You've noticed it, haven't you?" she pressed. "Our magic's gotten stronger. I thought it was a trick but…" Michonne sighed, searching for a way to phrase her thoughts. "This isolation, it weakens us. We were always strongest together."

"It's been a long time since we were all together," Sasha said lowly.

"We've got a chance now," Michonne said. "A chance to build something new. The way mama did."

"They all died," Sasha sniffed, crossing her arms over her chest. "Everytime we try, they die."

"Then we don't try this time." Michonne straightened up. "This time, we put him down."

Sasha looked out of the darkened window. The sounds of the Quarter could be heard, loud music, drunken shrieks of delight. Somewhere among them, the Governor was biding his time, laying his plans. "Tomorrow he's going to get his hands on so much power no one will be able to stop him."

"He won't," Michonne shook her head. "Today in the swamp, I was capable of things I didn't even know I could do. Without thinking. It was just natural."

"Like this thing with Rick, right?" Sasha guessed. Tears began to cut down her face, falling fast and thick. She sniffled, her words gaining speed, carried on shaky breaths. "He makes you want to forget about the curse. Makes you want to take a chance. He makes you feel like you can beat it. Because you have to."

Michonne's heart clenched, the raw wound opening again. "Bob wasn't your fault, Sasha. Neither was Abe. Like Mike wasn't mine." Michonne reached for her sister.

Sasha stepped closer to her, running her hand over her own face. "We put this bastard down then," Sasha said. "For all of them."

"For all of them," Michonne agreed, pulling Sasha towards her. They hugged, hearts hammering against one another. Sasha released her first.

"The potion," she said. "I think I know how we can do it. We need everyone at full strength though."

"We will be," Michonne nodded.

"We'll need your garden," Sasha said. "And it needs to be Halloween."

"Midnight," Michonne agreed. "At the stroke of midnight."

"I'll meet you in the kitchen downstairs," Sasha said. She pulled away, walking towards the door. When she laid her hand on the knob to the outside, she paused, looking over her shoulder.

"He seems like a good man," Sasha observed.

"He is," Michonne called back.

Michonne stood in her hallway, listening to the Halloween pre-party outside, and the silence echoing in her suite. From her living room, she could hear the low rumble of Rick's voice, murmuring soothing nonsense sounds. Her family spellbook was there with him, the pages well-worn, decades of history carefully outlined. Michonne had poured over them, plotting. It would have to be enough now. Halloween was tomorrow, and she was running out of time.

Rick's voice came louder, lilting. Michonne paused to listen to him playing with Virgil, her heart pounding at the cadence of his voice. She worried her lip between her teeth, considering. Slowly, she reentered her suite. Her living room was empty, save for Rick curled up on the couch with Virgil on his chest. He tilted his head up towards her when Michonne entered.

"I was wondering if you'd come back," he grinned sleepily at her.

Michonne walked towards him, lowering herself to the cushions. The cat, perhaps sensing her mood, yawned before vacating his place, heading off to do whatever it was that Virgil did.

"I told you I would," she reminded him, covering his hand with her own. Rick linked their fingers.

"Are you nervous about tomorrow?" he asked. "Do you need help planning?"

She smiled gently at him, tracing the rough curve of his fingernail with her thumb. "I have a plan," she assured him. "There's nothing left to do but wait."

Rick nodded, staring up at her. "Anything I can do to help?" he questioned.

Michonne bent her head towards Rick's, her locs falling around both of their faces. Her pulse raced immediately at his proximity. Up close, she could count every freckle, every laugh line, could see the salt and pepper of his beard. It was a face she liked immensely, one she was already used to seeing. The thought terrified her.

Rick sat up, one hand still wrapped around hers, the other slinking around her waist. She could feel it burning through the thin cotton of her dress. She reached for him as well, cupping the curve of his jaw before pressing her lips to his. Their kiss fell into a rhythm quickly, panting against one another until Michonne's blood ran hot. Rick pulled her into his lap, settling her where Virgil had been just moments before. She moved closer still, grinding herself against the hardness growing between them. Rick groaned into her mouth.

"I should let you rest," Michonne laughed lightly, leaning her head against Rick's when they came up for air.

Rick's hands tightened around her waist. "I ain't tired," he promised her, dragging her against him. This time it was her who groaned. She arched into him, stealing another kiss. "You sure, Chonne?" he asked, clearly straining.

Michonne smiled. "I'm sure," she promised, drawing him up and off of the couch.

Her bedroom offered more privacy, especially with the door locked behind them. Her canopy bed sat, large and looming. She started towards it, but Rick stopped her, catching her lightly around her hips.

"Hold on a second," he grinned, stepping towards her. Her breath caught as he crowded her, drawing her in for another bone-melting kiss. She swayed in his arms, bracing herself on his shoulders. Rick's hands resumed their wandering, trailing down to the bottom of her skirt. His thumbs rubbed patterns into her bare skin, toying with the hem. "I like the way you dress," he mumbled against her lips, clutching her thigh.

She wanted to giggle, but a moan escaped instead. She fingered the sleeves of his cotton shirt, gathering herself. "I like your hat," she admitted. "And your beard," she dragged her fingers through it.

Rick grinned. "The beard ain't going anywhere," he said, kissing her neck before bending to trail his lips over her collarbone. "And I can go grab the hat if you want."

"Next time," she giggled, sighing as his tongue darted out.

He groaned. "Wanted you from the first moment I saw you," Rick continued, running his hands beneath her dress. He cupped her over the thin fabric of her panties before sliding his palms under. "You're so damn beautiful," he squeezed, rocking against her. "Can't stop watching you."

She leaned forward, mapping his body with her fingers. "It's the magic," she teased, dizzy already from his touch.

"Yeah, it's a little bit of that," he agreed, drawing her leg up. "But it's mostly just you, Michonne." He kissed her messily. Michonne hung on, moaning hungrily into his mouth.

"You aren't so bad yourself," she gasped, pulling back from him. Michonne reached for the hem of her dress, drawing it up over her head. Rick's eyes widened as she came into view.

"Shit," he cursed reverently, his neck going scarlet at once. The blush disappeared beneath his shirt. Michonne longed to know how far down it went.

"I want to see you," Michonne flushed under his gaze.

He complied at once, helping her tug off his shirt before starting on his jeans. With difficulty, he managed to shake them off, leaving his heavy leather belt still in the loops as they fell to the ground in an unceremonious pile.

Michonne took a moment to look at him, his faintly tanned skin, his muscled arms, his bowlegged gait. His boxers did little to hide his attraction to her. She swallowed thickly, backing up until her legs hit the mattress of her bed.

"Come here," she requested, sitting atop it.

He stalked towards her, bending down to kiss her again. Michonne parted her lips for him at once, gasping as his palms touched her bare skin. He lifted her, sliding them up the bed until her head was at the base of her pillows. His weight atop her was delightful. She pressed every part of herself to him, shivering as the light brown hair dusting his body tickled her. Michonne giggled against him as Rick hefted her higher into his arms.

He grinned at her, moving to press wet kisses into her neck. "You ok?" he asked.

Michonne parted her legs, dragging Rick against her center. He groaned, his touch faltering. "I'm great," she whispered back, biting gently at him.

Rick's hand crept between them, sliding down until he could cup her. "Fuck," the word left him on a shudder. "Christ, Michonne…"

"For you," she felt no shame at her reaction to him, especially not when she could feel him, searing hot and iron hard, pressing against her thigh. She parted her legs wider for him, rolling into his touch. He made short work of the thin cotton barriers between them, tossing her panties and bra to the side.

He huffed, kissing her again. His fingers danced over her before pushing in, first one, then a second. Michonne clenched around him, drawing more cursing from him. "Shit, Michonne."

The stretch of him inside her made her desperate for more. She arched again, her nails scraping at his shoulders. He began slowly, giving her time to adjust, his eyes watching her carefully. His other hand slid back up her body, cupping and pinching and kneading in turn.

"Rick," she tangled her hands in his hair, holding on tight. She was coming alive beneath his hand, racing towards the edge of a cliff she never thought she'd fall over again. "Baby," she gasped, "I'm-"

He pressed deeper still, his thumb rubbing circles. "Come on," he coaxed, his breath warm against her ear. "Come on, Chonne. Let me feel you."

She obeyed, her body shattering, his name on her lips. Panting, she lulled her head back, attempting to gather her wits. Rick sat up, smiling at her.

"Still good?" he asked.

In answer, she laced her fingers in his hair, yanking him down against her.

-l-l-l-l-l-

She was heart-achingly beautiful in the wake of her climax, still clutching him as she caught her breath. Rick held her as she gradually returned to earth, doing his best to calm himself. He wanted her so badly that it was hard to think, so much so that it hurt. She kept rolling into him, as though she was unconsciously seeking him out. The feel of her, even around his fingers, threatened to send him into a tailspin.

"Michonne," he called her name again gently, drawing her higher into his arms.

"I want to feel you," she said in answer, looking at him through heavily lidded eyes. Her touch left goosebumps as her hand crept lower. She curled her fingers into the waistband of his boxers. Rick fell forward into her, pulse pounding in his ears.

"Gonna kill me," he said without thinking about it, straining towards her.

Michonne froze for a moment. Her eyes met his. Rick opened his mouth to apologize, but she cut him off with a searing kiss. Her hand closed in on him, fisting him snuggly.

"No," she promised. "I'm not." She began to stroke him, slowly at first, then gaining speed.

Rick groaned, burying his face in her shoulder. His hips moved on their own accord, straining towards her. "Need you," he gasped, brushing against her center. "Shit, Michonne-"

"Then take me," she challenged, pushing his underwear unceremoniously down his legs.

She guided him towards her, her hands sliding to his lower back. He pressed into the searing heat of her, forcing himself to go slow. She was molten perfection, her body trembling around his as she accepted him.

"Fuck," Michonne gasped, arching her back. "Rick, oh," she began to pant.

He'd never heard her curse before, but it sent a thrill through him. Rick pulled back, surging forward until their hips met. She tightened around him.

"More," she begged, tugging at his waist and ass. "Please, Rick."

He kissed her, speeding up, listening as she moaned in pleasure. "So damn perfect," the words were more than half a growl. He was drowning in her tight grip, pulling him deeper and deeper still.

Her lips brushed his, her gasps filling his ears. Michonne met him movement for movement, pushing into one another until the bed beneath them began to rock.

"So good," she moaned, hiking her legs higher for him. "You feel so good, Rick." She hissed, digging her nails in.

He levered himself over her, grasping one of her hands before pinning it to the mattress. She cried out her approval as he sped up, determined to drive her over the edge, to show her just how badly he wanted her to be his.

"Need you," he repeated, biting gently at her. "God, Michonne."

She babbled in agreement, kissing him wherever she could reach, her body getting hotter by the moment. Her hips surged up to meet his, stroke for stroke.

Rick nearly blacked out as pleasure flooded him, white-hot and all consuming. He fell forward, clutching at her. Beneath him, Michonne was shaking, tightening in waves, clinging to him. He held her, drawing her into his arms as he collapsed.

"Shit," he exhaled a moment later, still breathless.

She giggled, burying her face in the crook between his neck and shoulder. "Rick," she sighed, "I-"

The words did not come. She kissed him instead, holding his face between her hands, lavishing affection on him. Exhaustion fled his body at once, replaced again by the hunger he'd felt since first seeing her days ago.

When she rolled him over, Rick gratefully complied, smiling as she climbed on top of him.

"You're something else," he told her, groaning as she sank down, tossing her head back in pleasure.

Michonne smiled, bending over to kiss him again.

-I-l-l-l-l-

"I hate both of you," Glenn grimaced as he came bursting into the Hotel Hawthorne main kitchen, red in the face and decidedly angry.

"What happened?" Maggie asked, looking up from her place at the stove. With a flick of her hand, a fire ignited beneath a large pewter pot.

"What happened?" Glenn repeated, incredulous. "What happened is that Michonne and Rick were definitely in her bedroom."

From her place at the counter, Sasha's hand slipped while she was cutting ingredients. She hissed, cursing under her breath. Without saying anything, Maggie walked over, laying her fingers over the cut. It healed in seconds.

"Good for Michonne," Maggie observed lightly. "I told you Rick liked her."

"Well duh," Glenn deadpanned. "Sounds like he really likes her."

"It couldn't be that bad," Maggie argued. "I'm sure they shut the door."

"Sounded like they were trying to break the damn door down," Glenn went more crimson still. "And you can forget about thinking Rick isn't talkative." Glenn's eyes seemed to glass over.

"What do you mean?" Maggie asked, returning to the stove.

"I mean he doesn't shut up," Glenn squeaked.

"Like I said," Maggie shrugged. "Good for Michonne."

Glenn folded his arms over his chest. "Sure sounded like it."

From her place at the counter, Sasha flexed her palm, staring at the unblemished surface. "Did you get what we needed?" she asked in an oddly flat tone.

Glenn pushed a stack of things at her, "Grabbed everything I saw and ran. If you need something else, one of you ladies can go up their and get emotionally scarred."

Sasha rolled her eyes as Maggie burst into peals of laughter. "Go lay down, babe," Maggie suggested, kissing him as he passed. "I'll wake you when it's time for your watch."

"You sure?" he asked, looking at Sasha. The woman's back was to them both. The couple stared at one another, a silent conversation passing between them.

"Gives us some girl time," Maggie winked at Glenn, kissing him again. "I promise I'll come wake you up."

With a nod, Glenn started back towards the door. "I'm sleeping in Rick's room," he announced. "He damn sure isn't using it." He paused when he reached Sasha, staring at the woman.

"What?" she asked, arching a brow.

Quickly, he reached out, pulling her into a tight, albeit awkward, hug. "Nice to have you back," he mumbled into her curly hair.

Sasha reacted with surprise, but her expression softened. She hugged him back, "Missed you too, you dork." She patted him bracingly before releasing him. "Go get some sleep. Try not to think about our sister having sex upstairs."

Glenn paled. "I hate you," he repeated, all but running from the room.

Sasha chuckled to herself as he cleared it, silence settling over the kitchen. Behind her, the fire crackled away cheerfully. Maggie turned from it, walking towards the counter.

"Do you know what we need?" she asked, sifting through the pile.

"I've got an idea," Sasha answered. "If I'm right, it shouldn't be too hard. But if I'm wrong…" she huffed in frustration, going back to chopping ingredients with panache. "I wish we could double check."

"What about this?" Maggie raised a battered leather book, thumbing through its butter-soft pages.

Sasha glanced curiously at it. "I haven't seen that since I was a kid," she said, putting her knife down. "I thought it was lost."

"Michonne was probably using it," Maggie said, opening the spine. "This is where we found the spell to talk to your relatives." Her voice got quiet. "Glenn wanted to talk to your mama."

Sasha wiped her hands, coming over to look. "Don't blame him. I miss talking to her too." She sighed, running her hands over dried ink, tracing the curves and loops of her mother's handwriting. "Michonne's kept the book up," she noticed, flipping ahead. She swallowed. "She was always good at this."

Maggie considered this, drumming her fingers lightly across the counter. "From what I hear, you are too. Glenn says you taught him all the best curses for a fight."

Sasha snorted. "He was so small as a teenager, and kids are assholes. He needed backup."

"He told me you beat up half the baseball team for him once," Maggie smiled. "Sent them running home, crying."

Sasha paused. "He told you that?" she asked.

"Of course," Maggie shrugged. "You're his family."

Sasha said nothing, only continued flipping. "Haven't been that lately," she whispered.

Maggie shrugged. "I know you and Michonne talk all the time. Seems like sisters to me."

Sasha's eyes flickered up to the younger woman. "Yeah?" she questioned. "Did she tell you why I left? Did she tell you about Bob? About Abe?"

Maggie paled. "No," she shook her head. "Glenn wouldn't say anything either. I hear their names sometimes, and Mike's, but—" she broke off. "I wasn't there for that."

"Bob got hit by a truck," Sasha recounted factually. "Coming home from work one day. Abe died on the job. Military, but it wasn't war. Just a freak training accident, or so they told me," Sasha sniffled. "Mike, he was riding his motorcycle. Michonne could barely identify him after the crash. Her daddy had a heart attack when he was still a young man. My daddy got caught in a storm out on the highway, got swept into the river still in his truck." She looked up at Maggie. "Wonder what'll happen to Rick."

Maggie looked down, flushing pink. "If we kill the Governor, maybe nothing will happen," she ventured.

Sasha lifted her knife again, splitting a pomegranate neatly in quarters. "Michonne sure seems confident that will happen. Like she knows something we don't." Sasha's dark eyes found the book again, a question growing in them. Setting the fruit down, Sasha reached for its pages once more. She shut her eyes, mumbling to herself. The book leapt in her hands, wiggling for a moment, the pages turning. It landed towards the beginning.

"What's that?" Maggie asked, leaning forward.

Sasha opened her eyes, reading rapidly. The color drained from her face. "Did you know this?" she asked Maggie, shoving the book towards her.

Confused, Maggie glanced down, reading as well. "Oh no," she whispered.

Sasha's mind spun. She grasped the book again, flipping ahead. "She's going to try this," she announced. "She's going to try what our aunt did."

"But your aunt," Maggie gasped. "She died—"

"I won't let her," Sasha snapped the book shut smartly, looking up as though she could see through the ceiling. "She's not doing this."

"We can't stop her," Maggie grew flustered. "My magic isn't strong enough, and neither is Glenn's. And she's gotten more powerful lately."

Sasha huffed, tears gathering in her eyes. "We can't let her do this." She slammed her palms on the counter. "I'm going up there," she decided.

"Sasha," Maggie cautioned, reaching for her.

"No," Sasha shook her head. "I'm not losing anyone else. I'll talk to her. I'll make her-"

The tears spilled forward at once, a lifetime of sorrow welling over like a broken dam. Sasha cradled her face in her hands, shaking with the force of it. She fell heavily against the kitchen counter, her knees nearly going out from under her.

Maggie wasted no time, rushing forward to hold her. "It's going to be ok," she soothed. "It has to be ok."

Sasha trembled. "She's all I have left," she mumbled, gasping through her sobs. "She can't do this."

Maggie looked around, her eyes falling to the mess on the counter. "The potion," she said. She reached for the book, pulling it over. "The recipe for the original is in here somewhere. You're good at this. You can make the reverse."

Sasha wiped her face, "I haven't done magic in years."

"You're a Hawthorne," Maggie released her, leading her gently to the counter. "If anyone can do this, it's you." She pulled back to look at her. "You have to. For your sister. For your family, and all the people he's taken from you. If anyone deserves to die tomorrow, it's this asshole."

Her cursing startled Sasha. She looked at Maggie, impressed. "You're right," she said, straightening up. Carefully, she reached for the book again, opening it to its first pages. "I'll need help," she said.

"I'll wake up Glenn," Maggie nodded, determination on her face.

"Good," Sasha pushed her sleeves up, bending again to her work. "Let's kill this fucking bastard."

Maggie smiled. "I was hoping you'd say that."

-I-l-l-l-l-

It was difficult to breathe inside the steaming shower, but Michonne took great gasps anyway, attempting to stem the dizziness. Rick allowed her no such privilege, his lips covering hers again. Overhead, hot water poured over them, heating their already slick bodies, pooling between them. Michonne reached backwards, laying her palms flat along the wet tile walls, attempting to brace herself. Rick crowded her, his hard body pressed flush against her. She ached for him, as though they hadn't been joined repeatedly over the last few hours.

Rick's tongue flicked over her earlobe as his hands played over her waist and ass, kneading roughly. She moaned brokenly against his shoulder. Her legs felt weak. She reached for him, trailing her nails up and down his flushed skin.

"Rick," she laughed, sputtering beneath the showerhead. "We're supposed to be cleaning up," she reminded him.

With a devilish grin, he went to his knees in front of her, lifting her legs over his shoulders. Michonne let out a shout of surprise, scrambling to get a hold. His hands gripped her thighs, steadying her.

"Hold on, darling," he bit playfully at her, his grin widening when she moaned. "I ain't done with you." He leaned forward, his mouth finding her.

Michonne screamed again, her fingers tightening in his hair, her mind going blank. The shower began to shake around them, the water heating more still as she arched against him, losing control quickly.

"Shit," Rick yelped, pulling back with a hiss. He reached up quickly for the shower handle, turning the water off.

"Sorry," Michonne panted, embarrassed.

"Don't be," Rick was nonplussed. He lowered her to the ground, kissing her on the navel. He plugged the drain with his freehand, turning the spout on again. "Come here," he instructed, drawing her down again atop him.

She settled in his lap, the water swirling around them. Rick held her closely, groaning as she rolled her hips against him. She took him inside of her once more, moaning, kissing him with reckless abandon.

Rick banded his arms around her waist, guiding her motions, thrusting up into her until the water in the tub began to slosh again. Michonne giggled. "We're making a mess," she observed.

Rick blinked in confusion, his damp eyelashes brushing his cheeks. He didn't slow down, even as he groped for the faucet, stopping the flow of water.

"It's worth it," he told her, catching her face between his hands.

Michonne's heart tightened, tears pressing unbidden behind her eyes. She kissed him, memorizing the feel of his lips, his body against hers.

"It is," she agreed, falling over the edge with Rick one last time.


	21. AHE- The Witches' Ball

Michonne stood on the balcony overlooking the Quarter, her hands on the iron railings. She looked regal in the crimson light of the sunrise, her black skirts gathered at her feet, her locs arranged artfully beneath a traditional witches' hat, the sun playing off of her skin. She was a queen in her element, supreme in her domain. Rick paused from his place in her bedroom, content to stare at her.

She'd sent him here in the early hours of the morning, insisting he rest. Dutifully, Rick had retired, curling into bed. Exhaustion caught him at last, and he drifted off, his senses filled with her. There were no nightmares, no restless sleep, no fearful visions. Rick dreamed of Michonne. In his mind, she was laying beside him, her eyes shut, her head pressed against his shoulder. Rick held her, listening to the quiet music of her breaths, the powerful thump of her heat, beating hard against his. He'd woken to a sense of calm he hadn't felt in years.

Now, Michonne smiled at him, catching him in the act."You ok back there, sheriff?" her voice snapped Rick out of his trance. Rick felt no embarrassment.

"I ain't a sheriff," he corrected, walking towards her. He paused to grab his hat, balancing it on his head for effect. "I'm a cowboy," he winked.

His theatrics set her laughing, a light, melodious sound. "Well excuse me," she apologized, "Cowboy Rick." Her eyes danced over him, unabashed. "You've got the swagger for it," she complimented.

"Well," he joined her outside. The autumn wind bit at his skin through his flannel shirt. Nearby, the clubs in the Quarter were still playing music, the party from last night running straight into the new day. Rick wrapped his arms around Michonne's waist, leaning forward to hold her close. "You did tell me you liked the hat," he reminded her, smiling as she shivered against him.

"I did," she agreed, turning her face towards his. She nuzzled him, her fingers combing through his short beard.

"You said you liked a lot of things last night," Rick told her, kissing the shell of her ear. He could still hear her moans, the delightful way she called his name.

"There's a lot I like about you," she whispered back, kissing the corner of his mouth.

Rick tilted his face against hers, reciprocating fervently. She parted her lips, matching him, folding against him in what was becoming a familiar move. He had half a mind to draw her back into the bedroom, away from the outside world, when a sound like a cannon blast went off at the end of the block. He jumped, attempting to shield her.

Michonne chuckled. "It's time," she told him, turning back to look up the road. A band had gathered, their polished horns and drums glowing red as rubies in the rising sun. The procession formed behind them, hundreds of residents and visitors in costumes, all ready to usher in Halloween.

"Are you ready?" Rick asked her, his hands tightening around her hips.

She turned back to him, cupping his face before reaching around to run her fingers through his hair. "I've been ready," she assured him. Her eyes dropped for a moment. She licked her lips. "Rick," she sighed. "I know we do not know one another well-"

"We've got some things to talk about after this for sure," he grinned.

She laughed again, but her amusement was short lived. "Thank you for staying," she said.

"I told you I would," he reminded her.

"If something happens," she began, the little divot forming between her brows.

"It won't," Rick told her.

"Rick," her dark eyes found hers, catching the crimson glow of the sunrise. "If something happens-"

"Let's cross that bridge if we come to it," he suggested. Releasing her, he reached into his pocket, pulling out his badge. He held it up for her inspection. "Maybe I will be a sheriff," he mused. "Just in case."

She swallowed thickly, but took the metal from his hand. Carefully, Michonne pinned it to his shirt, above his heart. "Stay close to me," she requested, kissing him gently.

"I ain't going anywhere," he promised, catching her hands.

The drums started up again in earnest, the horns joining in the song. A cheer sounded, echoing up the block. Over Michonne's shoulder, Rick could make out the silhouette of floats in the distance, plastic skeletons, and voodoo queens, all ready to descend.

Michonne stepped back from him, reaching up to straighten her hat, a look of grim determination on her face. She took Rick's hand, lacing her fingers with his own.

"Let's go," she instructed.

Steeling himself, Rick followed.

-l-l-l-l-l-

The whole of Hotel Hawthorne had an eerie kind of glow, an energy radiating from it that even passersby noticed. The windows shone like candle light, shadows dancing in and out of their frames, coaxing in travelers. Inside, the halls were lined with tables, the surfaces sagging under the weight of silver platters piled high with treats, sandwiches, desserts of all flavors. Decorative cauldrons bubbled in between, surrounded by gleaming glasses set out to serve spirits by the hundreds. A fog swirled around the floors, and from the corner, an orchestra joined the piano, each instrument playing of its own volition. Enchantments sat in plain sight, trinkets floating and bobbing about like apples in a tank, servingware dolling out plates and drinks without a servant to guide them, and crystal balls with swirling faces, promising to read your future for a price.

"You did good," Sasha complimented, looking around. Maggie flushed beside her.

"Wanted it to look like Hogwarts. Had a whole theme planned. We enchanted a hat, figured we'd sort people," she broke off, smiling nervously. "Maybe next year."

Sasha nodded, plucking absently at Maggie's black robes. "I'll bring the butterbeer," she said.

Maggie laughed lightly. "Did enough cooking last night," she observed. "You think it'll work?"

"It has to," Sasha said. She raised the small, ruby red bottle, inspecting the contents.

"If it doesn't?" Maggie's voice was low. She swallowed.

"Well," Sasha tucked the bottle back into her sleeve. "Rick and I both have guns," she lifted her cloak, showing off her holster. "We can just shoot him."

Maggie pursed her lips. "Not a bad idea."

The two women laughed, watching as Michonne came down the main staircase. Rick was beside her, dressed like a cowboy.

"They look like a couple already," Maggie mused quietly.

"Yeah," Sasha agreed, watching as Rick took Michonne's hand almost absently, leaning over to whisper something in her ear. "They do."

"I'm going to go check on Glenn," Maggie said. "He looks like he's about to pass out."

The man in question had gone beet red. He was pointedly avoiding Michonne's eyeline. Rick waved at him and Glenn went redder still, beating a hasty track out of their path.

"You'd think he'd never heard anyone having sex before," Sasha chuckled.

"Oh, he's definitely heard that," Maggie winked. "I'll check on him." She walked towards her boyfriend, pulling him off to the side. Michonne took Maggie's place within moments, leaving Rick with the young couple.

"The hat looks nice on you," she complimented, eyeing her sister's ensemble, so very much like her own.

Sasha nodded, her lips tilting. "I'm glad it still fits," she said simply. She watched as Maggie and Rick conversed on the other side of the lobby. "Sounds like you two had fun last night," she observed lightly.

Michonne's cheeks flushed, but she kept her face impassive. "Rick's a talented man."

Sasha snorted. "I heard. Think the whole hotel heard."

Michonne laughed outright, her face creasing. "Sorry," she apologized through her giggles.

"Don't be," Sasha shrugged. "I'm happy for you. Just surprised you could make it down the stairs to help with the potion, that's all."

Michonne's laughter escalated. "Sasha…" she shook her head. "I've missed having you around."

"You could have just had those two resurrect an undead Governor a while ago," Sasha said.

"Oh," Michonne didn't miss a beat. "Is that the trick?"

The two stared at one another. Michonne reached for Sasha's hand. Sasha took it. "We're killing him," Sasha said. "Today. You know that, right?"

Michonne nodded. "That's the plan." Still, her eyes found Rick, across the lobby.

"That's what's _going_ to happen," Sasha squeezed, clasping Michonne's fingers in her own.

"Yeah," Michonne said, exhaling.

Sasha released her, reaching for the little crimson bottle. She extended it to her sister.

Michonne accepted it, hiding it in her hand. "The pomegranates worked, then?" she asked.

Sasha nodded. "Luckily you had them."

Michonne licked her lips, looking out through the windows at the crowd gathering outside. "Remind me to thank Lou," she said. "You ready?"

Sasha nodded. "Are they ready?" she asked, looking back at the trio just beyond them. They were gathered at the door, staring out at the parade. Sasha looked towards Rick. The US Marshal nodded slightly beneath his hat, looking quickly away.

"We're ready," Maggie affirmed.

As one, Sasha and Michonne raised their hands, throwing the doors open.

-l-l-l-l-l-

Sound and sensation flooded in at once, breaking itself against the Hotel Hawthorne. Michonne stepped outside, Sasha beside her. The parade marched up the narrow streets of the Quarter, following the traditional path it had taken for decades. Skeleton puppets were held aloft, and handmade floats were ladened with people tossing beads and candies to the crowd. As with every year for over a century, a line of eager visitors waited outside the door. They pressed forward, clamoring to see. There were audible gasps, yells of delight. Michonne turned around, looking at the young couple behind her.

"You outdid yourselves," she complimented, smiling.

Glenn blushed. Maggie looked pleased as punch. She rocked on the balls of her feet, her tartan skirt swaying. Quick as she could, she darted forward, pulling Michonne in for a tight hug.

"We love you, you know?" she asked quietly, throat tight.

Michonne held her, rubbing gentle circles into her back. "I know," she nodded. "And I you."

Glenn smiled, taking his girlfriend's hand. "Stay out of trouble when we're gone." He looked pointedly at Rick.

"What?" Rick looked scandalized. He adjusted his hat, scowling. "I'm always good."

At this, Sasha, Glenn, and Maggie all snorted with laughter.

"Yeah," Glenn began. "We're going to talk about you locking us out the suite when this is all over. You two have to work on discretion."

"Really?" Michonne curved her brow. "All the times I've nearly walked in on you two-"

"Ok," Sasha got between them. "There's time for that later. Evil Governor to catch, huge line of people outside, remember?"

"I remember," Michonne turned, looking at the crowd. "I'll see you soon," she told them, mustering as much calm as she could.

"We'll see you soon," Sasha nodded at her sister, heading outside with Glenn and Maggie. Michonne waved them off as they disappeared into the crowd. From the sidewalks, curious faces began to peer in, astounded.

"Come in," Michonne beckoned, "Everyone's welcome here."

They began to push in by the dozen, heading for the food tables, exclaiming loudly, whipping out their phones for videos. The orchestra shifted its tune to something lively. Michonne watched, heart pounding, shifting restlessly. Her fingers found the little bottle in her sleeve, tracing it nervously.

"Hey," Rick's voice was warm against her ear. He stepped closer to her, his hand finding hers. "It looks amazing in here," Rick told her.

"Lots of practice," Michonne attempted a smile, but her lips could only twitch feebly.

Rick did not seem to mind. "You do this every year?" he asked, looking around.

Michonne nodded, distracted. "Normally it's my family," she explained. "My mom and dad used to lead the dancing every year." She remembered watching them from the staircase, spinning in time to the delight of all of their guests. Then it was Sasha's father leading. Eventually, her mother danced alone, her smile never cracking, even as her daughters watched sadly.

"Who does it now?" Rick continued his calm line of questioning. He was close to her, in the place he'd rarely vacated since their kiss last night. Michonne leaned towards him, unconsciously seeking his warmth.

"No one," Michonne said quietly. "They just dance on their own." She hadn't danced at the ball since Mike died.

Rick smiled, pulling her closer to him. "Dance with me," he suggested. He held his hand up expectantly.

"Rick," Michonne began, glancing around. The Governor was somewhere nearby, of that she was sure. Despite this, her traitorous heart clenched, desperate to give in again.

"I know," he assured her. "But your family, they've got it," he looked out the front doors as the parade went by. "It's business as usual in here, right?"

She turned to him, skirt swirling, affection tugging at her. Her fingers danced along his.

"Just one," Rick plead his case. "We've got some time to kill anyway." He poked his bottom lip out, looking comically like a puppy being scolded.

Michonne's mouth curled into the beginning of a smile. "Just one," she agreed, taking his proffered hand.

Rick pulled her close, holding her around the waist before twirling her with a flourish. A surprised giggle escaped her. Carefully, he unclenched her fingers from around the bottle, taking it into his own hand. Michonne nearly asked for it back, but he pressed his lips to the crook of her neck, kissing her softly.

"Did I mention that you look gorgeous?" he grinned, leading her to the center of the lobby. A path cleared for them, curious eyes watching in earnest. The orchestra shifted its music once more.

"No," she told him, adjusting her dress to let it trail behind her. "You just stared at me with your mouth open." She hadn't minded in the slightest. It had been difficult to leave her bed with Rick in it, harder still to leave the tub. She could have spent days with only him for company.

He blushed but didn't look the slightest abashed. Instead, he pulled her closer, stepping backwards to the music.

"Couldn't help it," he told her, pressing his cheek to hers. The short hair of his beard brushed against her. Michonne leaned in towards him. His badge pressed against her breast, the metal warm between them.

"It's alright," Michonne assured him. "I like it." She moved with him, twirling, vaguely aware that every eye in her lobby was on the pair of them. Beneath her, the fogged swirled, changing colors. More people pressed in from the street, eager to watch the show.

"When this is over," Rick whispered in her ear, his hand tightening around her, "Maybe we can go somewhere for a while. Get to know each other."

"I'd like that too," Michonne told him, her heart clenching.

She laid her head against his shoulder, content, for just a moment, to let Rick hold her.

-l-l-l-l-l-

Once upon a time, Sasha had loved the Halloween parade. Her mother would dress them up in elaborate costumes before marching her daughters to the balcony to watch the festivities. On Mardi Gras, Sasha and Michonne were forced into seclusion, deemed too young for the celebrations. But Halloween, they were front and center.

As a child, it had been enough to distract her. Sasha could forget her father's death, could forget the stares and whispers of her classmates, the distrustful glances of their neighbors, and worst of all, the pitying looks. Michonne would hold her hand, walking her through the hotel, or down the streets, content to people watch, to judge the costumes, to cast spells at the children who irritated her the most.

Now she swallowed, adjusting her dark jumpsuit, doing her best to look casual as she strolled alongside the parade. She hadn't attended in years, but the festivities had not much changed. The same costumes, the same floats, the same drunken buzz in the air. So far, nothing was amiss, except the ache of dread that would not seem to leave her.

"If we see him, then what?" Glenn asked under his breath, still smiling and waving at people around him. "We just invite him in for dinner?"

"He'll follow," Sasha said confidently. "You read the pages, same as I. This Governor feeds off a crowd. He's not going to pass up the opportunity."

"And he's coming to the hotel, why?" Glenn asked.

"It's the source of his power," Maggie answered. "And it's the only place he can get more power."

"He can try," Sasha said, glancing over her shoulder. People were still streaming into the Hotel Hawthorne, each wearing a bright smile. Michonne was right. No matter how they spoke of the Hotel the rest of the year, the people of New Orleans could not resist it on Hallow's Eve.

"Look," Glenn said sharply. His gaze was on the line of floats.

Sasha paused in her tracks, taking stock. Each float had a crowd of sorts around it, people in character, doling out beads and treats. At the end of the line, still way off in the back, a ghostly gray ship rose above the crowd. It seemed to bob as though it were on the waves, cutting a path up the middle of the road. They were not the only ones who had noticed it. Heads turned in its direction by the dozen, intrigued.

Sasha moved at once against the crowd, drawing nearer, her hackles up. From this distance, it looked much like an elaborate float, surrounded by people in costume. The sight of them turned her stomach at once. Their grotesque faces were gaunt and drawn, all color long since gone from them. The skin, gray and cracked, was pulling away, exposing bone white skull. Their uniforms, though crumbling and caked in filth, were a distinct cobalt gray.

"Holy shit," Maggie breathed, her steps faltering. "Is that-"

Glenn grabbed her, his hand clasping on her shoulder. "He's not subtle at all," he observed.

At the head of the ship, the Governor stood tall, dressed in his Confederate uniform, a patch covering the eye that Michonne had destroyed. His troops marched around him, some on the ground, more still on the deck of the ghost ship, flanking him. They stood rigid and straight, waiting. The ones on the street shuffled by in immaculate lines.

"We need to get these people to move," Sasha instructed, alarmed.

"Away from him, you mean," Glenn looked around wildly. The crowd was surging towards the danger, eager to get a closer look at what they thought was an elaborate float.

"We need to do something now," Maggie's head whipped to and fro.

The first of the paraders reached the Governor's ship, pressing forward, hands out. There was a moment of tense silence where the world seemed to freeze. Sasha realized a beat too late what was about to unfold.

The nearest of the soldiers lashed out in a blink like some wild thing, teeth gnashing, hands out. The screams were instantaneous as a splash of blood and gore sprayed up, misting the crowd. Half a dozen more fell in quick succession. All the while, the Governor stood above, smiling down at them.

"Well boys," he declared, his voice booming over them all. "I think it's time to take back our town, don't you?" His minions growled their agreement, a ghastly, rattling sound. "Attack!" the Governor ordered, waving them forward.

The panic was terrible, a stampede of drunken fear. People began to trip, falling beneath the feet of hundreds trying desperately to escape. The dead soldiers fell on them like a plague, tearing at the crowd with boney fingers.

"I have an idea," Sasha's mind turned quickly. "Your hands," she demanded, reaching for Glenn and Maggie.

They took her palms at once, eyes on the crowd rushing towards them like a tidal wave.

"What's the move?" Glenn asked.

"I haven't done this in a while," Sasha admitted. "I need you to help me."

Maggie nodded, slamming her eyes shut. "Start the spell. We'll follow."

The words came easily once Sasha began them, lessons from her mother resurfacing. She began to yell, repeating the chant. Maggie and Glenn picked it up, adding their voices to hers.

The explosion that rocketed out of their joined hands nearly leveled the trio. The crowd screamed, but it had its intended effect, soaring towards the Governor's ship like a lightning bolt. His troops fell before it, dissolving into dust along with the boat.

Satisfied, Sasha stood up straight, watching. The crowd quieted, turning at once in the direction the ship had stood.

"Did it work?" Maggie asked, still clinging to their hands.

From across the road, the Governor got back to his feet. His eye found Sasha's. A murderous gleam sparked at once.

"A Hawthorne, I presume?" he asked, voice still booming.

Sasha raised her chin higher. "We don't go down easy," she told him.

The Governor grinned, straightening his uniform. "I hope not, Miss Hawthorne," his skin took on an unearthly glow, red like the sun behind him. "I really hope not."

Around him, the dust rose again, reforming and solidifying into soldiers once more. They began to advance again, pushing into the terrified masses.

"Plan B?" Glenn asked, igniting his hands. He tossed a fireball into the nearest soldier, incinerating him on the spot.

"The hotel," Sasha said, imitating him. "Get them all to the hotel."

-l-l-l-l-l-

Michonne froze in Rick's arms mid-dance, turning her head towards the door. He paused, prepared to ask her what was wrong. A moment later he heard the screams. People in the hotel froze, all looking in the direction of the parade. All music outside had stopped. In place of the sounds of frivolity, there was the unmistakable din of panic.

"Your gun," Michonne looked at Rick suddenly. "Do you have it?"

He nodded. "Went with the costume," he released her, staying close behind as Michonne headed for the door. Carefully, he tucked the small bottle he'd taken into his breast pocket, behind his badge.

"Get it out," she instructed.

Rick gripped his Colt beneath the jacket of his costume, adrenaline filling his veins. They reached the door and looked out. Rick's eyes widened.

"Oh fuck," he exclaimed.

Michonne turned to him, touching the pocket of his jacket. It filled at once, weighed down with what Rick knew were bullets.

"Be ready," she told him, turning back to the street.

Rick nodded, trying not to stare as Michonne's skin took on a glow. With a sound like the wind gusting, her palms went up in violet flames.

"He's coming," she observed, something almost like a smile on her face.


	22. AHE- Battle For New Orleans

The whole of the Quarter was pure pandemonium, a symphony of panicked screams, pained wails, and the clattering of the Governor's undead troops as they marched across the cobblestones towards Hotel Hawthorne. Those who were unable to flee the neighborhood outright had run for the only safe haven. They were crowded into the lobby, the stairwell, the halls, bleeding, sweating, cursing, crying. Nevertheless, the enchanted orchestra played on, a calming tune, tantamount to a lullaby.

Michonne stood just beyond it, peering out of the window, fingering the golden necklace against her chest almost absently. Rick wondered for a moment what she was thinking, how she could remain so calm when beyond her walls, the world appeared to be going to hell.

"Rick," she turned to him, eyes bright. "Will you let the others in?" she asked.

"Of course," Rick stepped closer to her. He brushed her shoulder with his fingers, toying with a loc of her hair.

"Then bar the door," Michonne continued, still touching her necklace.

"Ok," Rick nodded. "Then what?" He looked outside, watching for Sasha's face.

Michonne glanced at him. "Then meet me upstairs," she said simply.

"What about all of these people?" he looked around at the crowd, still clinging to one another, sobbing.

"They'll calm down," she said. She glanced up the stairs, looking eager to disappear.

"Michonne," Rick leaned closer to her, touching her hand. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," she kissed him swiftly, pausing for just a moment to run her hand down his face. "It's time to end this."

Releasing him, she moved towards the staircase, drawing the eyes of everyone in her hotel. People quieted at once as she walked past them, relaxing into solemn silence. One by one, every guest calmed until the only sound was the music, echoing serenely.

A frantic banging came at the door. Rick ran for it, throwing the heavy wooden doors open. Another hundred panicked Halloweeners scrambled inside, followed in short order by Glenn, Maggie, and Sasha. The trio was breathless. Glenn was holding flame in the palm of his hand, his eyes still on the threat coming up the street. Sasha said nothing, only rushed for the staircase after her sister. Maggie followed closely behind. Only Glenn remained.

"The hell is going on out there?" Rick asked, peering through the windows on the door. Reanimated bodies were wandering up the road, looking like extras in _Night of the Living Dead_. Rick wished he felt surprised by the sight.

"This Governor's got a thing for drama," Glenn reported. "Got a whole army of the dead marching down the street like the damn Saints." he exhaled, shaking his head. "And they're dressed like Confederates."

"Probably not a good guy then," Rick observed.

Glenn cracked a smile. "Seems like an asshole," he agreed. He noticed at last the strange calm inside the hotel. "Um, is everyone in here good?"

Rick shrugged. "I was hoping you could tell me. Magic ain't really my area of expertise. Michonne just walked by and they all...calmed down." It should have been terrifying, all things considered. But he'd meant it when he said Michonne didn't frighten him.

Glenn blinked in surprise, "Michonne's powers have been off the charts lately. I've never seen her do this kinda stuff."

Outside, a sound like an explosion went off. A few people glanced curiously at it, but the rest seemed content to ignore it. Tentatively, the party was beginning again. Guests moved to the dance floor and banquet tables as though a war had not come to their door.

"That's creepy as hell," Glenn observed with the air of someone commenting on the weather.

Rick could not disagree. "I got the potion," he told Glenn, nervously fingering the bottle through the fabric of his jacket." The notion of stealing it from Michonne didn't sit well with him at all. Sasha had cornered him last night, while he was still in a state of post-coital bliss, whispering urgently about some plan of Michonne's to take out the Governor. It wasn't until she'd shown him the book that Rick had understood. He recognized the name Apolonia Hawthorne from the tomb that day. It'd be a cold day in hell before he let Michonne add her name there too.

"Good," Glenn nodded, looking worried. "Does Sasha know?"

Rick shrugged. "Didn't get to talk about it. But I'm guessing she knows." He'd promised her that he would do everything he could to make sure Michonne didn't have to use the nuclear option. "Now we just gotta get this bastard in here." He looked out the window, grimacing at the sight of the dead soldiers.

"I'll stick close to her," Glenn promised. "Make sure she doesn't do anything stupid."

"I'll be quick," Rick sucked at his teeth. "The sooner this is over, the better."

One of the soldiers shuffled over towards the door. As he reached the front steps, he was thrown unceremoniously backwards. "Should we go?" Rick asked, looking up to where the women were holding down the fort. Michonne was doing fine on her own, but Rick didn't much care for the notion of leaving her to her own devices. Another wave of soldiers shambled forward only to be blasted into oblivion. Rick turned around, moving already.

"Yup," Glenn nodded, heading for the staircase.

Together, the men ran upstairs to join the fight.

-l-l-l-l-l-

Michonne stood between Sasha and Maggie, staring down at the Quarter. There was gore running up the streets, pooling between the cobblestones, splashed along the brick walls. The sight of it turned her stomach. Michonne flexed her hands, locking eyes with the enemy at her gates. Behind her, she could hear Glenn and Rick joining them, ready for the fight.

"I seem to remember facing sisters last time," The Governor shouted up at them, shooting them a winning grin. "Mayhaps there aren't enough of you Hawthornes to go around anymore."

His troops snapped and snarled, seeking to advance further. Michonne held them at bay with a thought. "More than enough to handle you, Phillip," she told him.

"You got lucky in the swamp, darling. But I have souls now to power me," the Governor glanced over his shoulder at the carnage he'd left in his wake. "Should have just started with this. Merle wasn't much of a sidekick. Especially if your little lapdog there could eliminate him so quickly." He turned his remaining cruel eye on Rick.

"You should pick your allies better," Rick observed, coming up behind Michonne. She reached for his hand, squeezing lightly. The Governor didn't miss the motion.

"I could say the same to you, Marshal Grimes," he called up to Rick. "Did no one tell you what happens to men who mix with the Hawthornes?" He smiled "Guess you'll find out soon enough."

The smirk on his face soon faded as Michonne ignited her hands, throwing a ball of violet flames at the Governor with surgical precision. It hit him squarely in the head, knocking him back.

"That's one way to shut him up," Rick complimented.

She smirked at him, lighting another. It glowed in the palm of her hand. "Ready?" she asked them, her brow arched.

Glenn and Maggie followed suit, their flames burning gold and green respectively. Rick drew out his Colt, pointing it downward.

"The troops first," Michonne instructed. "Phillip goes last." Tiring him out wouldn't be hard if he had to keep recreating his army. Perhaps it would cost her less of an effort to eliminate him then.

"Yes ma'am," Rick responded, firing the first shot.

-l-l-l-l-l-

Sasha hesitated, her eyes on her sister. Michonne was resplendent in her power, leveling the Governor's minions by the dozen. She wore an expression of concentration, her brow furrowed, her hands moving in lightening quick motions. This new power, whatever it was, came naturally to her.

Sasha's heart pounded against her ribcage, doubt entering her mind. It had been more than half a decade since she'd done anything more than levitate a cup. The effort on the street had nearly drained her.

"What are you waiting for?" Maggie asked from Sasha's elbow, glancing curiously at her.

"I-" Sasha flinched as Rick fired off another shot. His enchanted bullet caught one of the monsters right between the eyes. Before it could even crumple to the ground, Rick had shot another one. As he paused to reload, Michonne covered him, dissolving a wave of bullets from the undead soldiers nearest to the Governor.

"Sasha" Michonne called gently. She reached out towards Sasha with one glowing palm. "Here," she offered.

Sasha inhaled, reaching back slowly. The warmth danced across her fingers, but did not burn, shooting a curious tingle up Sasha's arm. She allowed the sensation to consume her, a long-dormant warmth filling her.

"Hawthornes don't forget," Michonne told her with a smile.

Sasha looked over the balcony, at the soldiers shambling below and attacking the home she'd grown up in. The Governor watched it all with an insufferable smirk, staring up at them like Christmas had come early. The fire grew brighter in Sasha's hands, changing color, running crimson as blood.

She hurtled it over, knocking the Governor clean off his feet. Beside her, Michonne laughed.

"Nice," she complimented, grinning at her sister.

Sasha's hands ignited again. "Guess I still remember a few things," she smiled.

-l-l-l-l-l-

The Governor glared up from his place on the street, a heady sense of deja vu overcoming him. Michonne stared right back at him. She looked just like her aunts, haughty and beautiful, observing him from her lofty perch. The same insufferable kind of person, the same lack of vision. The apple had not fallen far from the tree, even centuries later.

A smile quirked across her full lips, her hands igniting in a purple blaze once more. She was brazen in her attack, that witches' hat perched jauntily over her odd hair, that damned traitor of a US Marshal by her side. This country had gone to hell in a hand basket without him. Imagine what it could have been now, with him at the helm, if only that cursed eldest sister hadn't caught him unawares. He'd had decades to stew on this failure, but it mattered little now. The time had come to right that old wrong, and set the word back to its proper order.

The Governor straightened up, stepping slowly backwards. His army flanked him, snarling and snapping their teeth like beasts. They were about as useful to him in death as they were in life, though to their credit, their help had gone leaps and bounds in securing the souls he needed. Raising them had nearly cost him the meager strength left in his body. It was all for nothing if he didn't get that book. It was clear that until this Michonne was gone, that wasn't possible.

With a rush like the wind sweeping through a narrow corridor, the line of troops in front of him went up unceremoniously in flames. In seconds, they were not but wet ash littering the cobblestone road. Phillip looked back up, back at the sisters and their cronies, gleefully attempting to wipe him out.

This wouldn't do at all. Halloween was waning away.

Shutting the one eye that remained to him, Phillip called on the powers within him. He could feel the potion, surely as though he'd just swallowed it, the heat swirling in his veins. These Hawthornes were too bold by far. He would remind him what fighting him cost. With a sound like an explosion, his soldiers turned to ash in front of him, the float dissolving with what was left. It clouded the air, darkening the street. The crimson light of the sun swirled along with it, enhancing the eerie effect.

The Governor's new army began to take shape, one form at a time, dozens of men all in a row.

The balcony at that damned hotel went satisfyingly silent, shock evident on the dark faces of the witches. With a smile, Phillip sent his new troops marching forward, straight for the doors of Hotel Hawthorne.

"Let's see how you like this," he muttered, pleased.

-l-l-l-l-l-

Glenn recognized the men at once as the dust settled. It was like looking at memories in a funhouse mirror. There was Mike, but not as Glenn recalled him. Youthful exuberance was gone, as was his easy smile, his confident gait, the mirthful bark of his laugh. This was a shade of Mike, a farce. Beside him, Glenn saw Bob, bloated and muted, no trace of kindness in his face, and Abraham with him, the red of his hair dull, the humor in his expression erased. Behind them, lined up like troops, were Sasha and Michonne's fathers, their grandfathers, in-laws, uncles, and on and on. They all stood motionless, staring up at the balcony.

Maggie let out a broken breath, understanding dawning. "That's them, isn't it?"

Glenn looked towards the Hawthornes. Both sisters were frozen, a gauntlet of emotions playing across their faces. Michonne looked horrified, her gaze on Mike, the flame extinguishing in her hands. Sasha's eyes would not stay still. They bounced from person to person, her skin flushing.

"They're not real," Glenn said loudly, attempting to get his sisters' attention. "Michonne, you know that, right? That's not them."

She did not look at him, her dark eyes still on the men on the street, marching towards the door. Glenn looked to Rick, desperate.

"Hey," the US Marshal stepped closer to Michonne, his voice low. "Darling, that ain't him down there."

Michonne did not respond. Rick stepped closer to her still, muttering more words under his breath.

"Glenn!" Maggie called drawing his attention.

Glenn turned towards Sasha. The Sergeant took heaving breaths, her face purpling. Her eyes began to water, tears dripping down her cheeks and her hands fell limply at her sides. Maggie grasped her wrists, attempting and failing to shake her free of the Governor's spell.

"Sasha," Maggie shook her. Sasha did not move, her eyes fixed forward. Glenn spun, looking towards Michonne again.

"Chonne," Rick was attempting to put himself between Michonne and the men down below. "Michonne, look at me," he cupped her chin. "Just look at me."

Both women continued to face forward, their expressions blank.

-l-l-l-l-l-

"That didn't take you long at all."

The shade of Mike stood in front of her, his face lit against the darkness. There was something terrible in him now, something unnatural glowing beneath his ashen skin. Michonne's breath hitched, her heart pounding.

"Thought you were done with this," Mike continued, his breath frosting in front of him. "Thought you were done killing people."

"I didn't kill you," the words stuck in her throat. Michonne forced them out, shivering in the darkness.

"The hell you didn't," Mike scoffed. "You knew what it cost, but you trapped me anyway."

"I didn't," Michonne protested. "We met in the market. You pursued me," she reminded him. It had taken him months, but Michonne agreed to a date. From there, it was like falling down a mountain. Mike was easy to love, and easier still to miss.

Mike was undaunted. "_You_ killed me. Just like your mama killed your daddy. And that sister of yours…" he chuckled. "Two in less than five years." Mike stepped towards Michonne, his footsteps echoing. "You're catching up to her. That Marshal, he's going to be right here soon. Might even be today."

"No," Michonne recoiled from Mike's mirthless smile, from his cruel facade. "This isn't you, Mike."

"It is," he argued, pressing closer. In the darkness, the others joined him, their faces circling her, inching forward. "I'm what you made me. Same as the rest of us. Victims of the Hawthornes." Mike touched her. His skin burned like ice.

"No," Michonne shook her head, staggering back. She tried to light her hands again, but the heat would not come.

"Can't wait to talk to this Rick guy," Mike's cold laughter continued. "Sounds like we've got a lot in common."

They closed in around her, the darkness crushing. Michonne looked for an escape and found none.

"Time to answer for it," Mike tod her, grinning a dark, toothless grin. "Time to pay the price."

-l-l-l-l-l-

Michonne's knees gave out from under her. Rick caught her at once, holding her up, panic seizing him. Behind him, Sasha was still on her feet, lashing out at Glenn and Maggie, screaming in her catontic state. Michonne only mumbled, shaking her head, her eyes unseeing.

"No," she repeated. "No, Mike…"

Rick seized his Colt with one hand, leveling it down below the balcony. In seconds, he emptied the clip, the bullets striking the dead men in the front row. They passed harmlessly through them, embedding in the street. The Governor laughed.

"Can't muscle your way out of this one, Marshal," he taunted. "Those girls are mine."

Sasha began to collapse, dragging Maggie and Glenn down with her. In his arms, Michonne convulsed, her protests gaining speed.

"No, no, no, no," she repeated, eyes rolling back. "Not Rick, Mike. No!"

Rick hefted her higher, drawing her face towards his. He pressed his mouth to her ear, desperate, unsure what to do next.

"Michonne," he called to her, leaning his forehead against hers. "I'm right here. I'm still right here."

-l-l-l-l-l-

They were on her, their hands reaching, their voices accusing, dragging her down with them, into the darkness they'd been confined her in. Michonne pushed feebly out, attempting to stem the attack.

"No," she repeated again. "No, no, no."

"_Michonne_," it was her name, not from the phantom mouth of Mike, nor any of the men around her, but a voice she knew nonetheless.

"Rick," she blinked, and for a moment the darkness cleared. She could see his face, creased with worry, the blue of his eyes bright.

"I'm right here," Rick said. "I'm still right here."

The truth of the situation came rushing back, like a torch blazing bright against the inky horizon. The cold melted away, leaving the sensation of Rick's hands, warm and rough, holding her up. Sunlight played against Michonne's skin as she reemerged on the balcony.

Rick let out a ragged sigh. He pressed his lips to her cheek, holding her tightly. She wrapped her arms around him, breathing in his scent.

"I'm ok," she whispered, shaking off the effects of the attack. She felt chilled to the bone, but Rick's touch helped, warming her.

He held her closer, his eyes wrinkled with worry. "Your sister, Michonne. Sasha's still gone."

Michonne came shakily to her feet, bracing herself against him. Rick's arms moved to her waist, keeping her steady. Sasha had gone pale in Maggie's grasp, her mouth gaping, horror plain on her face.

"What do we do?" Maggie asked, desperate.

Glenn ignited his hands, tossing flames down. They danced harmlessly off the shades. The Governor continued laughing as his troops pressed forward.

Michonne kneeled beside her sister quickly, laying her hands on Sasha's cold skin. "I need you," she told the trio around her. "All of you." They complied, mirroring her. Rick laid his hand against Michonne's. "Hold on," Michonne shut her eyes again.

-l-l-l-l-l-

Michonne's words came faster than Rick could even perceive them, the chant rising and falling like ocean waves. Her hand heated quickly, a glow spreading, overtaking first Sasha, then Glenn and Maggie. His own palm took on the unearthly pallor, a curious kind of charge running up his arm. It crested, escalating, gaining pressure until it exploded outward.

The Hotel Hawthorne rocked as though caught in an earthquake. The phantom men went to ash in an instant, dissolving into the damp street below them. Rick watched as shadows like flickering flame licked up in their place, hovering above the road, gradually taking shape.

The Governor cried out, a bellow of frustration. He unleashed his fury from the palms of his hands, attempting to raise the hotel to the ground. The stone beneath them shook but did not fall. Rick's hand found Michonne's, holding tight.

"Your magic is mine!" the Governor shouted, rushing for the door.

Rick reached for his gun, but Michonne paid the threat no mind. Insead, she smoothed a hand down Rick's face. "Thank you," she told him, kissing him lightly. "For everything."

Rick nodded, resisting the urge to pull her into his arms and carry her away from this whole mess. "What now?" he asked.

Michonne laid her hand again on her sister, drawing her to her feet. "Are you ok?" she asked quietly.

Sasha murmured the affirmative, still shaking off the spell. Maggie stood at her side, rubbing soothing circles into her back.

"What's going on?" Glenn stood up. "Michonne, what the hell happened?"

It was Sasha who answered. "They almost got me," she wiped at her face. "But it wasn't them. It wasn't real—"

"I know," Michonne was calm by contrast. She adjusted her hat, drawing her sister to the edge of the balcony. "Look," she instructed.

The Governor was at the door, his anger tantamount to a tantrum. He beat at the foundations, casting spells by the dozen. "The book is mine," he growled. "The power is mine!" The hotel shook but did not fall.

Michonne ignored him, pointing instead behind him. The shapes below were taking form, solidifying. Rick spotted some familiar faces: the man he guessed was once Mike, the redhead, and the bald man. There were women now as well, statuesque, beautiful and terrifying. One of them looked up, turning her face towards the balcony, a small smile pulling at her lips.

"The graveyard, Rick said, heart pounding. "The women from the graveyard." The resemblance between Michonne and the women was even more pronounced now. Rick spotted the same round dark eyes, the same nose, the same mouth, etched on dozens of faces. Three women stood in the front, staring up. Rick noticed with a start that one of them wore a necklace that looked much the same as the one Michonne had on.

Michonne smiled serenely, joy brightening her eyes. "Yes," she said, turning to him. "Our family."

They gathered by the dozen, leaping into existence like pillars of fire. They turned as one towards the Governor. Every door and window in the Hotel Hawthorne flew open with a noise like a bang. On the street, the group moved quickly, sweeping forward, blurs of bright light. The Governor's screams were swallowed as the light seized him, spiriting him inside the hotel.

The doors and windows slammed shut, leaving resounding silence in their wake.

-l-l-l-l-l-

Michonne took the stairs two at a time, her skirts swirling behind her. The rest of the group followed suit, rushing after her, questions falling from their mouths. There was no time to answer them. She had minutes now, minutes left to do what she needed to do.

In the lobby, the guests cleared a space, standing against the wall as the orchestra played on. Michonne barely spared them a glance, all of her attention elsewhere. In the dead center, pressed down against the tiles, the Governor knelt, red in the face and sweating. He was fighting still, but to little avail, squirming feebly against the power holding him. The Hawthornes flickered in the shadows, male and female alike, hands pressing down, holding the man responsible for so much tragedy captive.

Michonne spotted her mother, flanked on either side by her husbands. Her heart clenched. Mama looked up, smiling.

"Proud of you girls," she spoke, a tone like musical chimes.

Michonne stepped closer, wanting to hold her, her mission temporarily forgotten.

The Governor broke the moment, thrashing against them. "You bitch," he spat, mouth running. "The whole lot of you. You don't deserve this power. What have you done with it?"

They gathered around him, forming a tight circle. Michonne walked closer still, pausing just inches from the Governor.

"What have you done with it?" he repeated, his gaze murderous.

"Plenty," Michonne told him, bending to touch him. "But you won't live to see more of it."

She took a deep breath, chancing a last glance over her shoulder. Sasha was rushing towards her, Rick a half step behind, realization coming over them.

"Michonne, no!" Sasha shouted.

Michonne smiled, pushing her sister back with one hand as her other palm touched the top of the Governor's head.

A shock of pain ran through her body, seizing her. Michonne cried out, but held fast, determined to end this. She could hear the faint sounds of her family around her, both living and dead, all crying out. She focused on them, ignoring her discomfort. Through the haze, she could see Rick fighting towards her, looking at her with wide, panicked eyes.

She smiled at him, fluttering her eyes shut, and pressed even harder.

-l-l-l-l-l-

"Grab her!" Sasha instructed, yelling. She fought against her sister's spell, crawling closer still. Beside her, Rick also pressed onward.

Glenn and Maggie did not hesitate, rushing forward to lay their hands on Michonne. At the moment they touched, Michonne's hold on Sasha broke. Sasha leapt to her feet, diving forward to add her strength. It was like touching a live wire; the burn ran up her arm, channeled through Michonne's body into Sasha's.

"Go back," Michonne argued, attempting to shake them off.

"I'm not leaving you," Sasha grit out through clenched teeth. "We do this together."

"The potion!" Maggie cried out. "Where's the potion?"

Rick rushed forward, drawing the ruby bottle from his pocket. Beneath their grip, the Governor began to struggle, thrashing out, attempting to escape.

"He's got to drink it all," Glenn told Rick, pressing down harder still. "The whole thing."

Sasha watched as Rick drew nearer, kneeling beside the Governor. He flinched but did not pull back as his skin brushed Phillip's.

"No!" The Governor fought all the harder, his remaining eye going wide.

Rick gripped the Governor's face, holding his mouth open. Sasha smiled, pressing down, determined to end it.

Below them, the Governor slammed his eye shut. The heat of his skin became unbearable, burning them all like a flame leaping to life. They cried out, but it was too late; his body crumbled, drying and cracking like brittle stone, going to ruin in the blink of an eye. The Hawthorne clan sprawled across the tile, their enemy gone. Silence settled, echoing around them.

"What happened?" Glenn asked urgently. "Is the Governor dead?"

In answer, Rick suddenly fell backwards, the potion still in his hand, writhing as though he was being attacked. His skin went pale, his hat skittering away as he collapsed, clinging to his head like something was trying to split it in two.

"Michonne," his blue eyes found hers a beat before he collapsed, his eyes rolling backwards. When he opened his mouth again to speak, it was not with Rick's voice.

The laugh, cold and cruel, filled Sasha with dread.

-l-l-l-l-l-

The nightmare unfolded in slow motion. One moment, they were so close, the Governor moments away from his end. In the next, Michonne watched in horror as Rick's body became a vessel.

He lifted his head, his handsome features contorted into an expression Michonne was now familiar with.

"Can't kill me now," Rick's lips moved, but it was the Governor's voice that taunted. "What are you going to do, Michonne?"

In frustration, she let out a scream, shaking off Glenn and Maggie and Sasha. She rushed forward towards Rick.

With a laugh, the Governor lifted Rick's palm, throwing Michonne backwards in her own lobby.

-l-l-l-l-l-

It was like watching a movie in his head. Rick tried to scream as Michonne went flying like a ragdoll, her body limp as it hit the tiles. A terrible cocktail of emotion filled him, one part his own horrible rage, the other a strange elation. It was like a virus, burning through him quicker than he could fight it. He felt his own hand clench, and watched again as Michonne took the hit.

A laugh fell from his lips, not in his own voice, but the Governor's. Rick's yell echoed only in his mind. He could feel the power coursing through him, setting his veins onfire. Like a puppet master, the Governor drew Rick to his feet, attempting to move him towards Michonne.

Instead, Rick's body staggered, yelping as Rick's knees went out, smacking hard against the tile ground. There was a moment of temporary reprieve, the pain sharpening his sense of self. He pressed his hands hard beneath him, biting down so hard that his mouth filled with the iron-like taste of blood.

From a few feet away, Michonne sat up, her hands out, ready to defend herself. Her eyes were wide as she looked at him, frantic.

"Rick?" she asked, moving cautiously towards him.

Rick's body jerked, but he held fast, digging in. "No," he managed to force the word out of his own lips, even as he felt his chest tighten. When he opened his mouth next, the voice was not his own.

The Governor laughed again. "Got a little fight in you," he sounded almost impressed. "Won't help, but I respect it."

Rick could see Glenn, Maggie, Sasha, all rushing towards him, attempting to save him. He slid forward despite his best efforts, throwing his hands out. The skin burned as the magic rushed up through his fingers. One at a time, his friends were thrown back, cursed by his own hand, their bodies taking the full brunt of the Governor's murderous wrath.

The orchestra came to an abrupt and disorienting halt, Michonne's earlier enchantment began to wear off. The guests of the hotel started to panic at once, screaming, rushing for the door. Sasha tried to calm them to no avail. They hit the locked front doors, clawing at the wood like animals attempting to escape.

"It's a shame they've all got to die," The Governor said with false contrition. "I think I'll start with that beau of yours." The laugh again filled Rick's mind. "What do you think she's going to think, when you're the last face she sees? Think she'll be happy? Or scared as you strangle the life out of her?"

Michonne did not look frightened as Rick turned to her, only resigned. She stood up, facing him down, her hands igniting again. "Don't make me do this," she said, looking not at him, but the monster within. Her voice was little more than a whisper.

The Governor only smiled. "You aren't going to win," he taunted. "Not this time." He raised Rick's hands, circling them around Michonne's throat.

Rick let out a yell, ripping his throat raw. His mind ran red, and for one moment, there was clarity. He seized the opportunity, realizing the little crimson bottle was still in his hand.

Without pause, Rick brought it to his lips, swallowing down every drop.

-l-l-l-l-l-

The doors of the Hotel Hawthorne opened again as guests streamed out in panic. Maggie and Glenn herded them outside. Sasha ran towards Michonne, shouting for her. Michonne barely noticed. Rick had collapsed to his knees, the now empty potion bottle shattering as it hit the floor.

"Michonne," her name was a strangled groan, but she recognized it. Rick's eyes met hers for just a moment.

She screamed, not words, but a terrible, gut-wrenching sound. Rick's body hit the ground, the light gone from the blue of his irises. Michonne fell forward, clinging to him, her hand above his heart.

Rick lay unmoving as she wailed, sobbing into his lifeless form.


	23. AHE- The Devil Gets His Due

At first, there was nothing, a terrifying feeling of emptiness. One moment he'd been looking at Michonne, memorizing the contours of her face and the next, he'd been tumbling, the curiously sweet aftertaste of pomegranate clinging to his mouth. The world went blank, quiet, devoid of all feeling. The air rushed out of Rick's lungs, and sensation was lost to him. He tried to scream, but no sound came out.

If this was death, he didn't much care for it.

He struggled, attempting to flail a body that no longer belonged to him. Still, the world shifted, a flash of color, a stripe of light, becoming more solid. It was like floating, not in water, but somehow in space, the curious feeling you get when you slide out of a dream and are neither asleep nor quite awake. Rick focused harder still, determined to get free of whatever had a hold on him.

Above him, the strip of light seemed to be growing, glowing like a river in the sunlight. On instinct, Rick moved towards it, reaching out curiously. A sudden, sharp force rocked him, not quite causing pain, but certainly discomforting. Rick shoved back, shaking free of the thing, turning wildly to gain his bearings

"God damnit!" a garbled voice, rife with anger, lashed out, accompanied by a swinging fist. It hit Rick square in the face.

It didn't stay gone long, coming instead from another angle. It tugged down hard, dragging him away from the light. Rick ducked, squirming, kicking and fighting blindly. Something inside him knew that wherever this was, he wasn't going down into that darkness unless that bastard was coming with him.

"All you had to do was leave," the Governor growled. "All you had to do was fucking leave." He smacked Rick hard.

Rick caught the oncoming hand, twisting it brutally. He listened to the Governor's scream with satisfaction.

"I ain't going nowhere," Rick told him, reversing their positions. He leveled blow after blow. His knuckles bruised and split but Rick did not slow down.

"You barely know them," the Governor's protest was more grunt than spoken word. "You barely know her! She'd kill you just for loving you, and you'd end up like the rest of them. Nothing! Stuck down here in the dark."

The world around them began to shift, gaining shape, shimmering with lights off in the distance. Rick saw them before the Governor, momentarily distracted. His enemy seized his chance, grasping Rick around the throat.

Rick caught his hands, tugging, pulling, scratching, but they wouldn't budge. All the while, the light grew brighter in the distance, closing in on them.

"All of this, and you're just going to die anyway," the Governor taunted him. "And I'll be back. Don't matter how long it takes. I'll be back." He pulled harder, dragging the two of them down, away from the light. Rick reached overhead, searching for a handhold, and found none.

Michonne crossed his mind. The panicked look on her face when she'd realized what he'd done had almost stayed his hand. Even in her anguish, Rick couldn't help but stare at her, mesmerized. The whole of her life had been tainted by this man, by his old grudge, by a curse that had stolen generations away.

"No," Rick said, gritting his teeth. Whatever this was, it ended now. Rick tilted his chin, pushing, kicking, fighting away from the darkness. Voices seemed to be calling out to him, a chorus of them, all yelling his name.

Rick struggled towards them, loosening the Governor's grip. Rick held tight to his enemy's wrists as the lights closed in on them, illuminating both men in a golden glow. Rick kept his eyes wide open, drinking in the warmth. It grew, cutting through the pitch black like a knife through butter, until even the Governor noticed it.

"Get off of him," someone instructed, the lilt of their voice like a song, even through her rage.

The Governor was thrown bodily, tossed forward towards the golden glow as he screamed in protest. The light covered them. Sensation returned, not quite as it was on Earth, but more pleasant, like sinking into a warm bath, or waking up safe in bed. Rick sighed in contentment.

"No!" The Governor screamed in pain. Rick watched, a safe distance away, unsure what to do next. The taller man was writhing, recoiling, struggling away from the ever present light.

"There's not much you can do," a woman told Rick calmly. Her voice echoed, her form growing more solid before his eyes. Rick squinted, suddenly sure of who he was about to meet.

"I'd dare say you've done enough," another voice imparted.

"My great-granddaughter has excellent taste," a third beamed, clearly pleased.

"Great?" the second scoffed. "Surely, you are missing several generations there?"

"The sentiment stands," the third said simply, unperturbed.

"Then perhaps we ought to send him back," the first voice suggested.

"Yes, yes," the third agreed. "But I would very much like to speak with the boy first."

"Less of a boy, than a man," the second observed.

The light shimmered in the direction that the voices conversed, revealing the forms of three women wearing dresses from an era long since passed. They all looked at Rick through familiar dark eyes.

"Hello?" he asked, the word reverberating around him.

"Well hello," the second woman answered amusedly. "Polite, aren't you?" She looked youngest of the three, her dark hair twisted into an elegant knot.

"The other is too," the first mused with a smile. "They'd get along, I think." Rick recognized her from the graveyard. She winked at him as their eyes met.

"Like I said," the third woman laughed outright. "Michonne has excellent tastes." Her long braids swung as she chuckled, her hand worrying her necklace. Rick felt a pang, a sudden longing despite his contentment.

"Perhaps he'd like to meet them all," the second woman wondered out loud.

"I should think he might have a few questions for us first," the first surmised, stepping forward toward Rick.

Rick smiled at the woman walking towards him. "I'm guessing you're a Hawthorne," he said.

The first woman laughed, pausing in front of him. "What gave the game away?"

"You look like her," Rick answered. "Or I guess she looks like you," he amended. This was an understatement. The same pleasant smile and the same sense of humor sparkled at him from round dark eyes on all three.

"Strong genes," the second woman shrugged, her lips tugging up at the corners.

Rick nodded, getting to his feet. He was surprised to find that the ground beneath him, whatever it was, was solid. "Am I dead?" he asked. He glanced at the Governor, still convulsing in the corner. He seemed smaller now, and his cries no longer echoed, but seemed pitiful. Rick felt satisfied at the sight. Whatever the Governor had been, he was no threat now.

"In so many words, yes," Michonne's first aunt nodded, disregarding the Governor completely. "But you'll find, Rick Grimes, that not everything is as permanent as people tend to think."

"I'm sorry," Rick began, shaking his head. "I don't know your name."

"You do," she corrected. "Though you do not know yet that it belongs to me. I'm Apolonia," the first woman answered serenely. "And that's Michonne's great-great-great-grandmother, Beatrix," she pointed to the third sister who spoke, "and our baby sister, Cecile."

"Pleasure to meet you," Rick nodded at each of them, feeling somehow bashful in their presence.

"I can see why she likes you," Beatrix said, bursting with pride.

"Remember," Cecile cautioned cheekily. "Don't get too attached."

"I waited 30 years to be reunited with my husband," Beatrix clicked her tongue. "A pair of pretty blue eyes isn't going to make me untrue."

"They are pretty though," Cecile complimented, chuckling at Rick's embarrassment.

Apolonia cleared her throat, shooting her sisters a long-suffering look. When they settled, she turned back to Rick. "I'd like to introduce you to the rest, but I'm afraid time is of the essence," she apologized.

At once, Rick noticed the others, all peering curiously at him through dark eyes. Centuries of Hawthorne women stood together, each as beautiful as the next. They were dressed according to their time, noblewomen, flappers, painters, engineers. In their faces, he saw Michonne and Sasha, their conviction, their strength, passed down through generations.

Beatrix watched him carefully. "We have a hundred questions for you, dear Rick," she said. "But as Apolonia said, time is of the essence. And there is someone here who has a pressing matter to settle."

She stepped aside, looking over her shoulder, her skirts gathered in her hands. Rick followed her gaze into the crowd. He spotted her at once, thin and waifish and pale, smiling at him the way she had when they were kids, so long ago.

"Hi Rick," his wife greeted, waving.

Rick stepped towards her on shaky legs. "Lori…" he began. Her name felt almost foreign on his lips. It had been years since he'd spoken it.

"You look good," she observed. Her nose wrinkled a beat later. "I don't think I like the beard though."

Rick let out a surprised bark of laughter, pressure building behind his eyes. "Aaron said the same thing. He's a captain now."

"I know," Lori nodded. "I appreciate him looking out for you."

"Lori," Rick choked, reaching out for her. She reached back, her fingers just brushing his. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry I wasn't there-"

"It went quick Rick," she told him, tilting her head at him sympathetically. "One moment, I was happy at home, the next," she shrugged. "When it's your time, it's your time."

Rick held her hand, tears running openly down his face. "I should have been there," he shook his head. "I should have-"

"You're here now," Lori soothed. "But it ain't quite your time yet."

"I know," Rick nodded, his voice low. Even now he felt the tug, the call to leave this space. "I love you though, you know?" he squeezed her hand. "I always will."

"That's the good thing about love," Lori smiled. "Comes in lots of shapes and sizes." She glanced around her at Michonne's family.

"Yeah," Rick agreed, turning his face upwards. Above them, the light shifted, moving like ripples in a pond. Through it, he could see a familiar silhouette. "I think you're right," he surmised.

-l-l-l-l-l-l-

"Michonne," Glenn's hand clasped her shoulder, tugging lightly. "Michonne, I think-"

She shrugged Glenn off, holding tighter. The scratchy fabric of Rick's costume brushed her face. He was still warm, even though the clothing. Gently, she ran a finger over his badge, a shudder coursing through her.

"Michonne," this time it was Sasha, who spoke. Her sister's hand brushed her back, rubbing soothing patterns.

"I lost him," Michonne sobbed, a dry, broken sound. Her tears had dried up, the salt tracks running down her cheeks. The whole of her felt numb, empty.

"It's not your fault," Sasha said quietly.

"He shouldn't have had the potion at all," Michonne shook her head, pulling back just slightly from him. Rick's cheeks were still ruddy, the last blush of life clinging to him. She shut his eyes, unable to look into them when the light had faded.

"He wanted it," Sasha said. "He took it."

"What do you mean?" Michonne turned her head towards her sister.

Sasha blanched, swallowing. "I mean-"

A voice interrupted, deep and masculine. "She means that you know how to pick 'em, Chonne."

Mike materialized in front of her, grinning the way he had when they'd been together. The shock of it nearly sent her collapsing. He looked young, happy, and whole. Michonne's grip on Rick loosened just the slightest, her eyes going wide.

"Meant to visit a while ago," Mike apologized. "It was kinda hard with that asshole running around," Mike shrugged, pointing a finger down as though the Governor resided just below them. "Your family's got him tied up down there though." His grin widened. "That man of yours, he was still whooping his ass as they fell."

"You're with my family," Michonne sat Rick's body down, coming shakily to her feet.

"I am," he confirmed. "Same with that new man of yours, for now." Mike laughed. "He ain't as handsome as _me_," he teased. "But he took a hell of a hit for you."

"Mike," Michonne swallowed thickly. A world of regret lived inside of her, all of it bubbling to the surface.

"We don't gotta do that whole song and dance," he assured her, reaching for her hand. "Shit happens. It wasn't your fault." Mike shrugged.

"I could have stopped it. I could have-" a sob choked the words from her.

Mike smiled, "There wasn't anything you could do. They always told me I was too damn charming for my own good. Couldn't take no for an answer," he chuckled.

Michonne heart clenched. "Mike…" she hugged him.

The man she once loved held her close. "I don't regret it, Chonne. Never regretted it for a minute. You know that, right?"

She nodded, clinging to him. "I know now," she whispered.

"We can't stay long," Mike told her, squeezing. "But we wanted to pop up and tell you that."

"We?" Michonne chanced a look over his shoulder.

Bob and Abe both materialized, chuckling together like a couple of old friends. Sasha gasped outright. She rushed towards them, crying openly, hugging them one at a time. Michonne turned her back towards the sight, giving them some privacy.

"Mike," she began. "I was happy with you. We could have been happy our whole lives."It was a regret that might never leave her, a grudge shared by generations of her family.

"I was happy for my whole life," Mike said, surprised. He grinned, holding her tighter. "Now it's your turn." He tapped a finger below her chin thoughtfully. "You look good."

"You do too," she let out a watery laugh.

"Glenn's gotten big," Mike noticed, raising a brow at the young man. "Got himself a girl."

"Hey," Glenn raised a hand, waving as though dazed. "It's good to see you Mike. You...look good." Glenn cleared his throat.

"I'd lecture you about not poking into Michonne's stuff," Mike said. "But it worked out for the best this time."

Glenn and Maggie both stared, open mouthed. "We won't do it again," Maggie imparted, her voice high. "We promise."

Mike only laughed. "Take care of these two," he told Michonne, kissing her hand.

"You can't stay?" Michonne asked, heart hammering.

Mike shook his head. "We only traded. Just for a minute." Mike let Michonne's hand drop. "I don't think you'll mind too much. We'll see each other again."

"Soon," Michonne said, smiling at him.

Mike shook his head again. "Not that soon, Chonne."

With a wink, he was gone, Bob and Abe with him.

-l-l-l-l-l-l-

"You've got him?" Rick asked, looking towards the Governor one last time. He was curled into the fetal position, whimpering. He was smaller somehow now, as though he was dissolving. The sight turned Rick's stomach. He looked away.

Apolonia smirked. "I assure you, we are the least of Phillip's troubles," she said.

"Well, I don't know about that," Cecile turned her eyes towards the Governor's cowering form. "I think Phillip and I are long overdue for a conversation." She stepped towards him, smiling in satisfaction as Phillip struggled to get away.

"Good." Rick turned to look back to where Lori stood with the rest of the Hawthornes. He blew her a kiss. Lori smiled, waving.

"It's a shame you couldn't meet Mike," Beatrix sighed.

"In due time, sister," Cecile reminded her. "He has other things to concern him now."

"I'll say," Beatrix grinned wickedly. Her sisters mirrored her.

"Are you ready?" Apolonia asked, holding a hand up. Beatrix and Cecile raised theirs as well. In a wave, the rest of the Hawthorne women mirrored them.

Rick smiled at Lori one last time, then looked upwards again. "I'm ready," he nodded.

Rick shut his eyes as heat filled him, spreading through him like wildfire. When he opened them again, it was to Michonne's tear streaked face peering hopefully into his.

"Rick," she gasped, cupping his chin.

He smiled at her, chuckling as Maggie, Glenn, and Sasha began to exclaim in relief. "Hey," he whispered to Michonne.

"Don't do that again," Michonne let out a dry sob, pressing her forehead to his.

"I won't," he promised, holding her. She trembled against him, drawing him up higher into her arms.

"Why'd you do that?" Michonne questioned, her eyes searching his.

Rick shrugged, sitting up. "Wasn't going to let you do it," he told her. "You got people here who still need you."

Michonne swallowed thickly. "So do you," she whispered.

Rick laced his fingers into her hair, pressing his cheek against Michonne's. They stayed that way for a long moment, content to feel the warmth gathering between them. "Your family says hello," he told her.

She held him tighter, laughing. "Are you alright?" she asked.

"Yeah," he kissed her, smiling against her lips. "Dying ain't that bad, all things considered. They took good care of me." He pulled back, looking around at the mess that was the hotel lobby. "Probably easier than cleaning all this up." People were still panicking around them, walking around the outside of the hotel as though dazed.

"I can do a decent memory spell," Maggie spoke. She looked pale, and was clinging to Glenn's hand. "I'll need help for this many people." She smiled just the slightest. "I'm glad you're back," she said.

Rick nodded at her. "Glad to be back," he said. Slowly, he staggered to his feet. Michonne helped him, watching him carefully.

"Just rest," she instructed, "I'll help you."

"Help them first," Rick suggested. Hundreds of people were wandering the streets and littering the road in front of the Hotel Hawthorne, bleeding, disheveled, and confused.

"I wasn't going to say anything," Glenn spoke. "But now would be a great time for that calming down trick of yours."

Michonne's hands worried at Rick's uniform. He caught them, kissing her palms. "Stay here," she begged. "I'll be back."

Rick released her. "I ain't going anywhere darling," he assured her. "Take your time."

"I'll be back," Michonne repeated, walking towards the front doors, her family dogging her footsteps. Sasha paused, looking back at Rick.

"Grimes," she said, calling to him.

"Sergeant," he responded, raising a brow.

"I owe you," she told him. With a nod, she stepped outside as well, ready to help put the world back to rights.

Rick smiled, sitting down on the piano bench. The orchestra struck up a Johnny Cash tune at once, one of Rick's favorites. Rick leaned back against the instrument, enjoying the music. Outside, he could hear the faint sounds of Michonne gathering the crowd.

Content, he closed his eyes, relaxing for just a moment.

-l-l-l-l-l-l-

Michonne had half of his costume off before they even made it into her room. Rick kicked his jeans down and away as she shut the door behind her. He fell on her unceremoniously, pressing her palms down against the hardwood of the door. He gathered her locs in one hand, tugging them to the side so he could kiss her neck.

Michonne gasped, arching against him, her round ass pushing hard against his hips. She tilted her head to grant him better access, mewling as his free hand ran down her body.

"This is a beautiful dress," he whispered, delighting as she shivered against him. Rick toyed with the thin slider of her zipper, inching it down slowly. He chased every bit of skin he exposed with kisses, nipping at her until she yelped. Smiling, he stood again, running his hands along her bare body, coming back to kiss her once more. She shivered against his chest.

"Rick," it was his second favorite sound, her saying his name. He dipped his hand between her thighs and she gifted him with his favorite. Her moan crested as he pressed harder still, kissing her deeply until she panted against him. She reached an arm back, looping it around his neck. "I thought I lost you today," she whispered.

Rick paused, spinning her in his arms until they were chest to chest. "I'm right here," he promised her, holding her tight.

Michonne pulled him toward her, kissing him desperately. Her hands wandered, taking stock of him, smoothing over his arms and chest. He pulled her legs higher, resting between them.

There would be nights, of that he was sure, where there was time to go slowly, to explore one another. One day soon, he'd dedicate the time to finding every spot that brought her pleasure, every word that brought a moan to her lips, every touch that made her writhe and drip for him. Today had made him desperate for her, desperate for that connection that made him feel whole. He lifted her into his arms, tugging her legs around his waist, bracing her back against the door.

Michonne yanked at his hair as he slid inside her, going inch by inch until their hips met. Rick pulled all the way out again before setting a backbreaking pace. She bounced in his arms, her mouth parted, her skin dewey, her nails raking over his shoulders and scalp.

"Yes," her words were a throaty hum, punctuated by messy kisses. "Rick, oh-"

Every touch was like contact with a live wire. Her body was all molten heat, drowning him as he happily plunged deeper and deeper still. He was alive, and for the first time in years, he felt it. Rick hefted Michonne higher in his grasp, holding her tightly as he turned them away from the wall and towards her bed. She clung to him, trailing kisses up and down his face.

"I've got you," he assured her.

Michonne smiled, "I know," she said.

-l-l-l-l-l-l-

The holiday celebrations continued in earnest outside, the sounds of thumping music, drunken frivolity, and raucous laughter echoing off the brick walls of the Quarter. The lobby of the Hotel Hawthorne was still full to bursting, partiers indulging. Glenn and Maggie could be found among them, wrapped around one another in the corner, less dancing than simply holding one another.

Sasha, for her part, was happy to be in her own bed, her pajamas on and her badge set aside. She slept soundly for the first time in years, the space beside her no longer seeming quite so empty.

In the Hawthorne suite, a trail of discarded clothing led to where Rick and Michonne had retired together. Her witches' hat was hanging haphazardly off the corner of the couch, tossed aside the moment they entered her front door. Rick's hat was laying in the hallway, attracting the attention of Virgil. The cat sniffed at it curiously before casting disdainful eyes on the bedroom door. Michonne had locked it again. With a yawn, Virgil retired to the couch, content to ignore and be ignored.

The bedding had seen better days, the sheets twisted free of the mattress, the draped fabric over the canopy hanging crookedly. Atop the mess, Rick and Michonne were laying together, their skin gleaming in the light from the moon shining through the window, both winded and, for the moment, sated.

Rick collapsed into the pillows, letting out a contented sigh. He was flushed, his hair a whirlwind of wayward curls. His lips quirked up in a smile, his expression overtaking his face as Michonne leaned over him, kissing him along the neck gently. He dragged his fingers up her waist and side, tickling, chuckling when she giggled before swatting at him.

"Stop," she mumbled half-heartedly, shocking him lightly when Rick doubled his efforts.

He yelped in surprise, pinching her in retaliation. "You ain't playing fair, darling," he griped with no real venom. "I can't use magic."

Michonne paused at that, a thought tumbling in her mind. "I'm not so sure, Rick," she disagreed.

"What do you mean?" he rolled closer to her, slinging an arm over her waist.

"The Governor," she began, her voice thick. It was the first time she'd mentioned his name since the incident. They'd been largely content to ignore the elephant in the room. The real world loomed just outside the door, the responsibilities and obligations of two seperate lives. Michonne wanted to ignore it forever.

"What about him?" Rick asked, burrowing closer to her among the mound of pillows.

"He shouldn't have been able to do magic in your body," Michonne said. "Not like that. And the badge…" She hadn't charmed it that day in the swamp. Rick possessed some power unknown even to him.

"You saying I'm a witch?" Rick asked, nipping lightly at her shoulder.

Michonne smiled, massaging his scalp until he lulled against her. "Seems like you're something, Rick."

He smirked, his hands finding her body again. Michonne squirmed against him as he touched her. "Well," he rumbled into her neck, kissing her for good measure. "That we already knew."

She laughed, relaxing, touching him as well. Her fingers brushed a scar on his bicep. It had once been raised and jagged, but now was nearly gone. Michonne looked at it, the question clear in her eyes. "This must have been a hell of an injury," she observed.

Rick looked at it as well. "It was," he confirmed. "You should have seen it before I drank that tea of yours."

Michonne leaned over him, continuing her exploration of her new lover, cataloguing the curves and ridges of his body with focused precision. "What was it?" Michonne ran a finger along the pale, raised hill of skin, looking up through her loose locs at Rick.

Rick glanced down at her through his lashes, craning his head to see better. His hand covered hers, pressing the palm flat over his bicep.

"That?" He drummed his fingers along her knuckles. "Got winged by a bullet on a bust when I was still a sheriff."

Michonne curved a brow, moving her hand down to a red streak against his side. "This?" She asked.

"Rusty rebar pole," Rick answered. "Fell on one when I was chasing a fugitive down my first year as a Marshal through a construction site." He took her hand again, guiding it across his body to his other arm. A small, pronounced scar pushed up against her fingers. "That's from the tetanus shot. Got the guy though."

"And this?" Michonne continued her line of questioning, reaching up behind Rick's ear. The pointed tip of a jagged scar peeled out from beneath his curls.

"Jumping on the bed in grade school. Went flying off, hit my head on the dresser. Damn near gave myself a concussion and my little brother a heart attack." He smiled at her. "My mom and dad weren't thrilled about all the blood."

She could picture it, this younger Rick, just as brash, just as impetuous. "You have a brother?" She asked.

Rick nodded. "Lives with his family in the same town we grew up in. See him during the holidays. I always spoil my niece and nephews rotten. Drives Jeff crazy." He exhaled, leaning down to kiss her. "What about you?" he asked. "Any scars?"

She smiled, laying her head down on his shoulder. "None that you can see."

Rick tugged at her hair. "Guess you're more careful than me," he speculated.

Michonne shook her head. "Once, Sasha and I set our whole bedroom on fire. Our mother asked us to clean it and we started fighting, as always," she snorted. "I don't remember whose hands sparked first, but the whole closet went up in flames before we noticed enough to stop fighting. Mom was pissed."

"I bet," Rick laughed, his chest rumbling. "What happened?"

Michonne shrugged. "She made us clean it up. We got good at cleaning up our messes." She glanced at the window. The sounds of the Halloween party still raged on without her. The residents of New Orleans would never remember the Governor, never know what truly happened in the parade accident. The effort hadn't exhausted her in the way she thought it would. This new power, frightening though it was, was not completely unappreciated.

"Hey," Rick kissed her forehead, drawing her attention back to him. "You'll never have to deal with his mess again."

She smiled at him, tugging lightly at his beard. "Neither will you," she told Rick. She crawled closer to him, enjoying the heat playing off his body.

He caught her hand. "There's always a mess somewhere. That's the job." For a moment, he sounded almost regretful. His eyes roved over her face.

"More scars to be had?" Michonne speculated, trying to keep her voice even. She scratched lightly at his chest, laying her palm flat over his heart.

Rick shrugged. "More life to live," he said simply. He rolled over, his exhaustion abated, and tugged her beneath him.

He captured her lips in a searing kiss. Michonne sighed, sucking at him, enjoying the play of his hands on her body. He jerked the tangled sheets off from around his waist, kicking them down unceremoniously as he rolled her more firmly into position. Michonne clutched the bunched blankets, gasping against Rick's mouth as she parted her legs again. He was inside of her before she could even get her bearings, the stretch of him exquisite torture.

Rick levered himself over her, clutching her thighs as he drew her legs one at a time over his shoulders. Michonne cried out as his hips moved, thrusting so deeply that she could have sworn she was seeing stars. She wondered for a moment, if she would ever get tired of this, of Rick's hunger for her, of his hardened body, the gruff whispers in her ear, his lips on her.

"Rick," she gasped, arching her back into him. Her limbs seemed to be catching fire, going molten from the inside out. She began to tremble, tremors wracking her until tears gathered behind her eyes.

He bent his head to her again, wiping away the saltwater tracks coursing down her cheeks. His kiss was desperate, needy. Michonne responded in kind, trading air between them, growing dizzier by the moment. She clung harder to him still, her nails scraping at his skin. She dragged her hand down, catching it between their slick bodies until her palm rested over his heart.

"I'm here," he promised her, panting against her. "I'm still here, Michonne."

She tossed her head back as her climax overtook her, shivering against Rick. He did not slow down, only leaned closer to her, threatening to split her in half as he dove deeper still. Michonne began to cry again, overcome. Rick's hands burned into her waist, his hold tight. In no time, she was racing towards the edge again, her body shaking as though it no longer belonged to her.

Rick's lips found the side of her face, his words ragged and strained. "I could get used to this," he told her, groaning as she shattered around him. His rhythm staggered as he fell forward, pinning her beneath him.

Rick went silent, pressing kisses to her neck and shoulders. Michonne shut her eyes, enjoying the gentle rise and fall of his chest.

"We have a lot to figure out, Rick," she murmured, holding him tighter, drifting off.

He chuckled, kissing her forehead. "There's tomorrow for that," he rumbled, sighing. "Sleep for now."

Michonne didn't respond, already deep in a dreamless slumber.

-l-l-l-l-l-l-

_Two days later in New Orleans..._

Merle Dixon cussed up a storm when Rick arrived for him on a cold, gray Louisiana morning. Rick's SUV sat at the ready, the engine still running, the bars separating the front and back seats magically enforced.

"Fucking pigs," Merle muttered mutinously, glaring as Sasha and Rick both. "Shoulda killed me."

Sasha pushed Merle forward, rolling her eyes. "Shame we can't gag him along with the handcuffs," she observed, shutting him into the car.

Merle's shouts escalated, like a child having a tantrum. Rick ignored it, smiling at the sergeant instead. "Can't say I ain't considered it," he said lightly.

Sasha grinned at Rick. "He doesn't remember anything. Just keeps screaming about you shooting him in a swamp."

"Your sister is good," Rick observed, his skin flushing just to think about it.

Sasha made a noise low in her throat. "I bet," she hummed.

Rick blushed deeper still. "Guess I didn't take your advice," he said, shuffling his feet.

Sasha laughed. She reached out to punch him lightly. "I'm glad you didn't," she admitted. "Michonne likes you."

"The feeling's mutual," he assured her, clearing his throat.

"Surprised you managed to drag yourself out of bed," Sasha continued her teasing. "Glenn tells me that he spent the last few nights in your empty room."

Rick laughed. "Surprised me too," he said. He'd slept all of an hour last night in lieu of being inside of Michonne as often as he possibly could. She'd fallen asleep on top of him, sated and exhausted. Rick had slipped from bed before she could miss him.

"She's going to miss you," Sasha all but read his mind.

"I'm gonna miss her," Rick said. "But there's some stuff I gotta take care of."

Sasha nodded. "Look, Rick, what you did for Michonne-"

"You would have done too. I just had the potion," Rick pointed out.

Sasha fixed him with an unflinching gaze. "She's my sister. I love her."

Rick glanced off. "Yeah, well," he sighed meeting Sasha's dark eyes. "Must have been something that made me take it."

"It's something I'll never be able to pay you back for," Sasha spoke, her voice tight. "If you ever need anything, _anything_, Grimes…"

"I have your number," Rick reminded her. "You'll be hearing from me. And not just because I need something," he smiled at the woman in front of him.

Sasha spread her arms, gesturing for a hug. "I'll see you around then, Marshal Grimes."

Rick hugged her, lifting her lightly. "Soon, Sergeant Williams," he said.

They disengaged, Rick waving as he climbed into the driver's seat of the car. Merle's swearing got louder still. .

"Fuckin' Grimes," he swore. "Piece of shit, no good-"

His words died in his throat, his gums flapping, but no sound came out. Rick glanced up in surprise. Outside of the window, Sasha winked.

"Drive safe!" she instructed.

"I will," he waved, putting the car in reverse. Sergeant Sasha Williams became a small blur in his rearview mirror as he navigated through the Quarter by memory. He needed to get back to Georgia, process the asshole handcuffed in his back seat, fill out reports. But there was a pit stop he needed to take first.

She was waiting for him, much like she had the first morning he laid eyes on her, standing in front of her hotel with Glenn and Maggie, chatting animatedly. She waved as Rick came to a stop in front of her door.

"Wait here," Rick instructed, barely deigning to look at Merle.

Dixon's mouth moved, his face going a nasty shade of puce, but remained silent. With a smirk, Rick shut him inside.

"Hey Michonne," he greeted, smiling at her.

"Told you he'd be back," Maggie grinned, kissing Glenn's cheek.

"Thought you'd leave without saying goodbye," Glenn said, reaching out to shake Rick's hand.

Rick chuckled. "No chance," he clapped the young man on the back. "Stay out of trouble. Don't raise anyone else from the dead."

Glenn flushed. "It was her idea," he nudged Maggie. "But we'll do our best."

"Be safe, Rick," Maggie came forward to hug him, rubbing his back. "We'll miss you."

"Take care," Rick hugged her back.

The young couple smiled at him, taking one another's hand as they disappeared back into the Hotel Hawthorne. Rick and Michonne were left standing face to face.

"I have to get back," Rick said regretfully, reaching for Michonne's hand.

She only smiled. "I know," she told him.

"You're going to hear from me soon," he promised, growing flustered. "I-"

Michonne stepped forward, silencing him with a kiss. Throwing propriety to the wind, Rick wrapped his arms around her, slanting his face over hers. Michonne tugged gently at his hair, sighing against his lips.

"Be safe," she instructed, releasing him.

Rick smiled. "Your sister made it so that I can't hear Merle's bullshit, so there's no risk of me killing him before we get back."

Michonne's laugh only made his grin wider. "His voice will have to come back once you're both in Georgia though."

"Shame," Rick quipped. He caught a loc of her hair between his fingers, rolling it. "You take care of yourself, darling."

"I will," she promised. She pressed her lips to his again, slowly and sweetly, making it count.

With an effort, Rick stepped backwards, cool air swirling in the space she just vacated. His feet felt like lead as he walked the short distance back to his car. He started the engine, watching through the windshield as Michonne blew him a kiss.

He'd barely made it to the freeway, deep in his thoughts, when his cellphone rang.

"Rick," Aaron's voice piped through the speakers. "Are you on your way back?"

"I am," Rick nodded, maneuvering onto the freeway. "Got Dixon in custody."

"Good," Rick could practically hear his captain's smile. "Got work to do when you get back."

"Actually," Rick sucked at his teeth, glancing at a highway sign clocking the miles back home. "There's something I want to talk to you about."

"Shit," Aaron sighed. "Is it bad news?"

"Nah," Rick chuckled. "Wondering if you still got those study guides for the captain's test."

Aaron let out a bark of surprised laughter. "Yeah, Grimes, I do. Do you need them?"

Rick glanced in the rearview mirror at New Orleans. The city was growing smaller by the moment.

"Yeah," he confirmed, rubbing his lips. "I'm thinking I do."


	24. AHE- Epilogue: All Saints' Day

**A/N: Thanks for reading! Please let us know what you think, and stay tuned for our next collaboration soon!**

* * *

The morning was cold, the chill clinging to the window panes of Hotel Hawthorne. There were a million reasons to stay in bed, but Michonne was up already, wandering the halls of her home. It was quiet this morning, as it had been since Glenn and Maggie set out on their own. They weren't far, still in the Quarter, but that did not stop Michonne from missing them terribly.

Virgil wound himself around her ankles, greeting her with a quiet yowl as she calculated her list for the day. There was dinner obviously, the annual feast to shepherd in the new year. Sasha would be round to help before noon, and the rest would be arriving after. She had time this morning to go about her routine. Throwing on a house robe, Michonne set out from the suite.

The hotel guests were bundled up tight, content in their warm rooms, sleeping off spiked eggnog, champagne, and holiday dinners. Michonne crept quietly from door to door, ensuring that all was well.

No one was stirring, upstairs, but instinct drew her down. In her lobby, the piano plunked dutifully away at _Auld Lang Syne_, the tune perking up considerably as she walked across the tiled floor. Michonne smirked at it, beelining for her kitchen and a strong cup of tea.

She paused as she arrived at the door, pressing her ear to the wood. Someone was inside, banging about like they were trying to recreate a rock concert. Michonne eased the door opened with her hip, preparing herself for the worst.

"Mom!" the tallest of the wrecking crew laying siege to the kitchen gasped in surprise, dropping the metal mixing bowl in his hands. It stopped before it clattered to the ground, hovering just inches from the floor.

"Careful," the second child chirped brightly, reaching out to catch it. His dark brown hands were dusted in flour to match his brothers. He'd apparently rolled in the stuff, judging by the frosted color of his curly hair.

The third wasn't doing much at the moment besides sitting on the edge of a barstool, her feet swinging down as she watched her brothers. She reached out for the counter, snagging a piece of fruit between her round little fingers before unceremoniously popping it into her mouth.

"Happy New Year, mommy," she imparted brightly, chewing away.

"What are you three in here doing?" Michonne asked, shutting the door behind her.

The counter was littered in front of them, broken eggshells, melting lumps of butter, cinnamon spackled like confetti. Michonne spotted a sharp knife, half stuck in an apple.

The eldest, perhaps reading her mind, piped up quickly. "Don't worry mom," he soothed. "Only I touched that."

"We're making biscuits," the middle child said, pointing at a pan of rounded lumps. "That way you only have to cook dinner."

"Is that right?" Michonne smiled, surveying their efforts. "Buttermilk?"

"With cinnamon apple butter," the eldest said, pointing again at the hacked to pieces fruit.

"You're doing it the old fashioned way," Michonne voiced her approval.

"We tried your way," the eldest sounded just the slightest bit put out. "I couldn't do it."

"Not yet," Michonne said. She reached for a hook on the door, removing her robe before tying on her apron.

"Are you going to teach us?" the second child stepped up eagerly, watching her.

"I am," Michonne bent to kiss his head, dusting flour from his hair. "You have to concentrate," she instructed, looking towards the oldest.

"I will," he promised, his cheeks flushing in a familiar way.

"Alright," Michonne pushed the pan into his hands. "Close your eyes," she said.

All three obeyed, scrunching their eyes shut.

"Ok," Michonne said slowly. "Now picture what it is you want to make. The biscuits exactly as you want them."

"Yummy," the girl said loudly.

"Pretty," said the second.

"With apple," said the eldest.

"Good," Michonne took a step back. "Think of it hard, and push that thought into the dough."

All three children began going purple in the face, their expressions suggesting extreme concentration. Michonne watched, smiling. It started slowly, first one, then another, until the smell warmed the whole kitchen. The youngest opened her eyes first, squealing in delight. Her brothers quickly followed suit.

"You did it," Michonne reached for one, juggling the hot pastry in hand. She split it neatly into quarters, setting one aside.

"For dad?" the middle child asked.

"He'll be back soon," Michonne nodded, watching as they ate happily, chattering animatedly about their first baking success.

In the lobby, the piano's song changed, heralding in the new arrival. Michonne looked eagerly towards the door. The three kids ran towards it, waiting expectantly for him to come in.

"Hey," someone said brightly in a deep voice, pushing the door open.

Upstairs, in Michonne's bedroom, someone knocked loudly.

"Michonne," Maggie called to her, peering in. "It's time."

Michonne's eyes fluttered open, the dream suddenly ended. She blinked at the top of her canopy bed, reorienting herself. The air around her was cold, the winter weather seeping in through the window panes.

"Michonne?" Glenn's voice joined his girlfriend's. "You said to wake you up, remember?"

"I'm up," Michonne announced, stirring under the covers.

Her bedroom door opened, and her charges trooped in. Maggie paused at the foot of the bed while Glenn lit a fire in the grate with a wink.

"Lots to do," Maggie said brightly.

"Sasha's downstairs already," Glenn reported.

"I'll be down soon," Michonne hazarded a smile.

They left and she took a moment to calm herself, turning over the dream in her mind. Since Halloween, her nights had been consumed with nothing but visions of Rick, memories of their time in her bed. This though, this was something new.

She looked at the phone on her nightstand, reaching for it instinctively. It had been a quiet night. Only one message waited for her, from Sasha, telling Michonne that she was on her way. Michonne felt a pang of disappointment. She toyed with it, her fingers pausing over the numbers, debating.

He said he'd call, and he always kept his word, even months later.

"He'll call," she said out loud to herself. There was no reason to bother him with a dream she didn't understand herself.

Reluctantly, Michonne got up, dressing herself for comfort over style. As she pulled a thick cotton sweater over her head, she glanced over at the bed. It seemed too big now, too empty. With a sigh, Michonne pulled her locs free, slogging downstairs to the kitchen to help.

All of Hotel Hawthorne was sleeping off a hangover except her family. She could hear them clattering around in the kitchen, sounding very much like the children from her dream. Something about the dream kids was familiar, awakening a hope in her that she hadn't felt in years. She checked her phone again as she came into her lobby, trying to ignore the piano playing _Auld Lang Syne _with panache.

"Michonne," her name again drew her attention. Sasha pushed through the front door of the hotel, ladened with grocery bags. "Did you get my message?"

"I just woke up," Michonne smiled sheepishly.

"Well, I went to the market. Lou sent me back with more apples. I think he thinks we go through them like crazy," Sasha angled the bag down so Michonne could see. "We might need to make something with them."

"Biscuits," Michonne said idily.

"Biscuits?" Sasha wrinkled her nose. "I was hoping for pie."

"That too," Michonne amended, attempting to focus on the situation at hand. "Need help?" she asked.

"No," Sasha answered cryptically, holding the door open behind her. She peered over her shoulder. "I got a ride over here."

"Lou?" Michonne asked.

"Nope," Sasha said. "But he might need help. Got enough to feed an army in that car." Sasha let the door swing shut, walking quickly away and towards the kitchen. From the entrance, Glenn and Maggie looked eagerly out. The trio set to whispering at once. Michonne blinked at them, bemused.

Curiously, Michonne walked to her front door, peering through the frosted glass. A dark SUV was parked on the curb, its driver's side door open. Her heart skipped a beat. The piano changed its tune, the sultry music echoing off the now-empty lobby.

Outside, the car door slammed shut, and heavy booted feet made their way around.

"Hey," Rick came into sight, arms full, beaming brightly. His hair had gotten longer in the winter months, his beard more robust. Michonne stared, mouth open, elated.

"Rick," she hurried down the stairs to the curb, disregarding the cold, disregarding the audience of tourists wandering the streets.

Rick was ready for her. He set the grocery bag hastily down at his feet, catching her as she flung herself into him. His arms closed in around her, cosseting her. The scent of him, his familiar warmth, and the sound of his chuckle all filled her to the brim.

"I thought you had work," she gasped, peppering his face with kisses.

Rick caught her chin in one broad hand, drawing her in for a deeper lip lock. When he pulled back, she was dizzy. He looked far too pleased with himself.

"About that," he began, tugging at her hair. "Guess who passed the captain's test?"

"We knew you would," she smiled, waiting eagerly to hear more.

"And," Rick continued, smoothing his hands down her back, "guess who's the new captain of the Marshals here in New Orleans?"

"Why didn't you tell me?" she asked against his mouth.

He shrugged. "Wanted to say it in person. Besides," he cocked a brow. "It's New Year's. I wanted my kiss."

She ran her fingers through his beard. "I've got more than a kiss for you," she promised on a whisper, her skin tingling at just the thought.

"I was hoping so," he smiled.

"Are they going to let you keep this?" Michonne corded her fingers deeper into his mountain man facial hair. It was soft despite its wild tangle.

"Not a chance," he laughed. "Once vacation is over, the beard is gone." He sighed dramatically, pouting for her amusement.

"We better take advantage then," she said lightly.

Rick's grin turned wicked in an instance. "I was hoping for that too," he repeated.

He leaned in again, but a yell from the doorway interrupted him.

"Get in here before you freeze to death," Glenn was posed on the front steps, a long-suffering look of exasperation on his face. "You can make kissy faces inside," he told them, his breath frosting in front of him.

"It's sweet," Maggie argued, coming out to stand beside her boyfriend. "Welcome back, Rick," she waved.

"Good to be back," Rick grinned, pulling Michonne under his arm.

"Just come inside," Glenn rolled his eyes, swinging the door open expectantly.

"He's going to get all squeaky if we don't listen," Rick whispered conspiratorially. He released Michonne as she giggled, bending to pick up the bag before taking her by the hand. Slowly, they walked together towards the doors.

"I had a dream last night," Michonne told him. "The way I used to dream about you."

"Oh yeah?" Rick asked. "What was it about?"

"There were three kids," Michonne smiled at the thought. "The oldest one had your eyes."

Rick didn't even flinch. "Three?" he asked, surprised.

"Yeah," Michonne said. "Two boys, one girl." She watched carefully for his reaction.

Rick raised a brow, pursing his lips. He paused at the door, looking seriously at her. "That's gonna be a problem, Chonne."

"Why?" she asked, tilting her head at him.

"In my dreams, there's always four," he winked. With a flourish, he opened the door to the Hotel Hawthorne, waiting for her to step inside.

Michonne paused, kissing him on the cheek. "Guess we're going to be busy," she smiled, reaching for his hand again.

Rick laughed, following her inside. "I think so, darling."

The door swung shut on the Hawthorne family, as the first day of the new year dawned bright outside.


	25. The Siren and the Sea

**A/N: Happy Mermay! Msdoomandgloom did some STUNNING art, and I couldn't help but write something to go with it. Please check out the full piece on Twitter, along with all the other gorgeous illustrations throughout the years. **

**We hope you enjoy, and that everyone is safe, healthy, and thriving.**

* * *

The morning dawned pale and cold, the sun a colorless splotch on the horizon. The waves were still, bobbing the boat so gently that the occupants scarcely felt it. The crew were asleep, a half dozen seasoned sailors worn out from a long night of manning the nets. Their snores squeaked through the crooked wooden boards of the cabin, a rhythmic sonata to match the lull of the water beneath them.

Rick stumbled outside, boots dragging against the damp deck, slogging towards the stern. He'd drawn the short straw just a few precious hours ago, necessitating that he be up to check the dredge nets. He shivered, pulling the collar of his woolen jacket tight, bundling himself in the dark fabric against the breeze dancing off the ocean.

His footsteps beat hollowly, forging a path to the winch suspended just off the stern, the tip sagging downward until it almost broke the opaque surface beneath.

"Damn," Rick muttered, sighing.

Experience told him there was no profitable fish in these waters heavy enough to nearly break that net. He was more likely to find a belligerent sea lion, or perhaps an ailing shark. The prospect of either was unpleasant. He contemplated rousing the others, but decided against it, not wanting to suffer their ire.

"Up you go," he mumbled, straining already against the crank.

Little by little, the weighted net began to rise, dripping and rippling the water beneath it. Rick glanced over, hoping for a peek at what was causing him such grief before breakfast.

The face staring back at him sent him scuttling away from the edge.

He lost his footing, collapsing in a heap, the air forced from his lungs. Shaking, he climbed back up, trying to calm himself, attempting to reason. It had to be a trick of the light, a mirage in his still foggy brain. There was no way that there was a woman glaring at him from among the pile of floundering fish.

Rick repeated this to himself as he began to crank again, determined to prove himself wrong. This time her head emerged in measures: a twist of dark hair, a flash of brown skin, and two round disdainful eyes, glaring for all the world at him.

Fear at once gave way to panic and Rick finished his task as quickly as he was able, locking the winch before seizing the hook used to drag the net in. He moved carefully, gaze glued to the face pressed against the knotted rope, heart pounding against his chest.

"God," he breathed, steadying the net. It's contents splashed down towards the deck. "How did you get in there?"

The face offered no answer, but Rick wouldn't have heard it over the thrumming in his own ears. A young woman, beautiful and muscled, watched him, rearing back as though she expected an attack.

"Hold on," Rick soothed, lowering the net. His fingers fumbled with the clasp, attempting to open it. It gave way at once, fish flopping about in a pungent, briny wave, clattering in the air, struggling for life. The woman laid among them, arms wrapped around herself.

Rick dropped to his knees, gloved hands pushing net and fish alike aside. He collided with a mass of iridescence. Rick imagined that he'd laid eyes on most of the creatures of the deep that could wander into a fisherman's net, but this caught him as unaware as the woman's presence. He squinted, entranced by the kaleidoscope of color trapped in the myriad of minuscule scales. They caught the sun, shifting and changing, glowing first silver, then an indigo deep as the sea, then violet without missing a beat. Curiously, Rick grabbed at it, attempting to move it off the lap of the lovely and quiet woman.

It moved at once, whipping up, knocking Rick back flat on his ass. He watched in shock as the tail- for that's what it was- curled upward.

"You're…" Rick stammered, mouth running dry. His mind was filled with stories, but his lips would not form the words.

The scales ended at the woman's abdomen, an expanse of smooth umber skin beginning at once, leading up to strong arms, rounded breasts, a long graceful neck, and that beguiling face still staring.

Rick gaped. He'd heard the tales, as a boy and now as a man, fairytales meant to frighten or delight. Sirens leading men to their death, mermaids saving sailors from the depths. Rick was not quite sure what the woman before him was, but it was clear that half of her at least, was not human.

She began to move back much like a beached fish, an awkward, unsteady retreat. Rick saw the reason for it at once. A chunk of metal, jagged and rough, stuck at an angle just beneath her ribs. It was a harpoon, ancient and rusted, the tip broken off and embedded into the creature in front of him. She winced, crying out. It startled Rick that the first sound from her lips to ever grace his ears was to be a moan of pain.

He was up before he could contemplate it, rushing for her again. Her eyes widened in panic, but she needn't have worried. Rick gathered her in his arms, tail and all, bearing her back towards the wheelhouse. She squirmed, fighting him, but Rick held tight.

"Whoa," he cautioned, carefully avoiding her wound. "I'm trying to help you," he grunted out.

She did not cease but her hands loosened around his forearm, her expression growing weary. Rick nudged the door open, lowering her gently down before the wheel.

"One minute," he assured her, reaching for the first aid kit. He opened it, nudging the box towards her, hoping she understood.

Her gaze fell to it then danced back up, one brow arching.

"You need help," Rick said. "Let me help. Please."

There was a long moment where Rick could hear the boat creak and groan, hear the breaths of his fellow crewman, nearly forgotten in the wake of his new discovery.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, she nodded, her chin ducking just an inch. Rick smiled reassuringly beneath his salt and pepper beard, peeling off his work gloves and disinfecting his hands.

"This will hurt," he cautioned, sure now that she could understand.

Her chest rose suddenly, accompanied by a sharp intake of breath. Rick focused on the harpoon, deciding quickly that shoving it through would be less painful than yanking the barbed end out. He steadied her with a hand to her abdomen, noting the heat of her skin. With an inhale, he forced his other hand forward.

A sharp little cry rang from her, tightening Rick's throat. He shoved again and she gasped, but the metal was free, her blood sticky between his fingers. Gauze and a towel stemmed the bleeding. He held it in place, watching her face.

"Do you have a name?" he asked, attempting to distract her.

She looked at him, lip worried between her teeth, breathing labored. Rick wondered fleetingly whether she had gills like a fish, or breathed like a mammal. He wondered too how the wicked instrument had found its way into her, and how she'd ended up in that net. The answers seemed unlikely to come.

Cleaning the wound set her shaking, her tail trembling while her face betrayed nothing. He worked as quickly as he was able, rubbing the smooth skin of her back absently, hoping it brought her some comfort.

Rick reached for a needle, threading it steadily. "Sorry," he apologized again, plunging it in.

Her eyes watched steadily as he worked, her hand gripping at the hem of his damp woolen coat.

"There," Rick tied the end off, leaning forward to tear the thread out of the needle with his teeth.

The gesture brought him in closer contact. He paused for a moment, stunned by her scent. It was a hint of the sea, the aroma of a breeze, the way sunshine smelled on a summer day. Rick was struck at once by memories, all of them pleasant. He pulled back, swallowing hard.

"All right," he nodded, shoving the bloody gauze absentmindedly into his pocket, packing the first aid kit and returning it.

He had moments now before the rest woke up. They would wonder why their catch was scattered on the deck, why he'd abandoned his post. He doubted very much that they would observe the creature in front of him with the quiet curiosity he had.

She came more willingly into his arms this time, pushing at the door to help him.

"How do you want to do this?" he asked her, moving to the stern. "Should I just-" he gestured, lifting her as though to drop her.

She looked over, considering. The sea was still quite calm this morning, smooth as glass. The creature nodded again, pausing to look back at him.

"Well," Rick felt a sudden reluctance, but he smiled, bracing himself. "Happy trails then."

One slender hand came up, startling him. She tugged at the hair of his beard, her eyes softening. Before he could brace himself, she'd kissed him on the nose, pressing her full lips to his flushed skin. With more finesse than he could have anticipated, she dove, arching from his grasp and back into her element.

Rick leaned over, watching as her tail flicked, disappearing beneath the sea. Disappointment burned in him as acutely as her touch still seared his skin. A ripple appeared for just a moment before she emerged once more, this time looking on him with something almost like affection.

"Michonne," she said quietly, her voice lilting like a song.

"Michonne," Rick rolled the word around, tracing the syllables with his tongue. "Your name?"

She looked amused, dipping beneath the water to hide the beginnings of a smile.

"I'm Rick," he said, desperate for her to know.

"Thank you, Rick," Michonne answered.

With a whip of her tail, she was gone, leaving Rick reeling.

"Grimes!" A crewman barked, drawing him away from the stern with a start. "What in the hell happened out here?"

"A sea lion," Rick reported without missing a beat. "Got it free and it jumped over." He turned back to his work, his mind still beneath the waves with the woman who had kissed him.

-l-l-l-l-

She could hear him beneath the surface, the steady cadence of his voice now distinguishable from the rest. He had a peculiar kind of inflection, one that had been pleasant to her ears, even through her distrust.

"Rick." Michonne repeated his name, drifting lower, contemplating. He was a man unlike any she'd encountered.

Humans had glimpsed her before, flashes of her diving among the waves, or sunning herself in the shallows. She always drew their attention, their elation, their fear. Never before had she been treated so delicately, touched so gently, without lust or curiousity or greed. The last men she had seen before him had chased her, stabbing and prodding, seeking to pluck her from the sea. The harpoon had been agony, burning and weakening her until she'd collapsed, drifting with the tides. She'd awoken in a net, sure that this was the end of her.

And then there had been Rick. She doubted she would ever forget him. Even now, he did not betray her, claiming that he'd seen nothing but a sea lion, laughing with his cohorts as they began to salvage their catch.

The sea was quiet and still today, for which Michonne was thankful. She needed to recover her strength, to consider what had happened. She skirted the cool sandy bottom, settling in a bed of kelp for a long awaited nap.

She dreamed of Rick. His face, the tanned skin tinged in pink, the curl of chestnut hair beneath his cap, the rough nap of his beard, the concern in his eyes, blue as the sea on a summer day. Michonne had never given much thought to the appeal of human men, but a longing stirred within her now.

She awoke in the darkened water, feeling better in spades. The fishing vessel was long gone, leaving her to her solitude. The beams from the moon shone down, the white light filling her, healing her, calling her to the surface. Michonne emerged, blinking in the starlight, considering what to do next.

A dive to the bottom brought her handfuls of seagrass. She set about weaving them, crafting a basket of sorts. She filled it until it was sagging with clams, their smooth dark shells slippery, each closing as she touched them, unaware that they were to be a gift.

Michonne could feel him like a pulse through the tides, drawing her to the aging hull of his fishing vessel once more. She crept carefully, quietly, one hand on the boat, searching for him. He was there, still in his coat, sitting near the bow and staring out at the horizon. The sight brought a smile to her face.

"Rick," she called to him quietly, but he heard at once, perking up and looking for her.

"Michonne," he grinned, teeth glowing indigo in the moonlight. He tugged his hat from his hair, the curls a mussed tangle.

Michonne raised her basket, using her tail to steady herself. Rick reached down to meet her, his rough fingers brushing the back of her hand.

"What's this?" he asked, eyes not on the gift but on Michonne's face, his lips still quirked up in a disbelieving grin.

"A thank you," she said simply, bracing herself against the boat. Her locs pressed between her bare skin and the vessel, She freed them, tossing them over her shoulder, unobscuring her view of the man still looking at her in awe.

"You don't need to do that," he rumbled. His skin flushed, visible even in the low light. "You already gave me a kiss."

She would have very much liked to give him another, a proper one this time, but she only smiled.

"For you," she told him, releasing the basket to him and lowering herself down.

"Will I see you again?" he asked urgently, stretching forward.

Michonne nodded, blowing him a kiss. Without another word, she returned to her world, staring up at the full moon suspended above, and Rick's silhouette, holding the basket, his eyes still searching for her.

-l-l-l-l-

_"When I was a little lad_

_And so my mother told me,_

_Way, haul away, we'll haul away, Joe!"_

The raucous chorus rose up as the sailors secured the vessel, scrambling against the ominous gathering of dark clouds on the horizon. The moon, nothing more than a crescent-shaped sliver, did little in the way of providing illumination. Rick worked alongside the rest, squinting in the quickly fading light, arms burning as he tied down whatever was not attached, preparing to weather the storm.

_"That if I did not kiss the gals_

_Me lips would all grow moldy._

_Way, haul away, we'll haul away, Joe!"_

Rick lashed down a stack of equipment, ignoring the drip of fat raindrops, pushing himself to move faster still.

_"Way, haul away, we'll haul for better weather..._

_Way, haul away, we'll haul away, Joe!_

_Way haul away, we'll haul away together_

_Way, haul away, we'll haul away, Joe!"_

The lyrics got swallowed in the sounds of the surging sea. The fishing boat rolled and dove like a cork, powerless against the tide. Rick braced himself, soaked through to the bone, watching the world grow gray and deadly, a massive, swirling threat.

He was bare beneath his coat, his trousers hastily drawn up. Just minutes ago he was roused roughly from sleep by the warning bell. Now Rick's toes pressed into the flooded deck, attempting to cling in place, to stop the wild rocking beneath him.

Rick's mind wandered, as it often did these days, to Michonne beneath the sea. Their gift exchange had become a game of sorts, trading coins for shells, seaglass, apples: treasures from two worlds passed between them in Michonne's basket. Most mornings he found it attached to the bottom of the dredge net. He filled it again before lowering it, only to find a new gift the following morning. Delightful though this was, he had not laid eyes on the beautiful woman in weeks. He missed the sight of her immensely.

Rick reached into his pocket, tracing the string of shells and pearls he kept with him. He'd threaded them carefully, squinting in his bunk by the light of a lantern, fashioning them into a necklace. He'd planned to gift it back to her once it was finished. He doubted he'd get the chance now.

The ship lurched, rolling so violently that it nearly capsized, taking on water by the gallon. Rick dug his fingers in, eyes stinging, praying for the end to at least come swiftly.

The fishing vessel did not survive the next mighty wave. Lightning rent the sky as the ocean lifted the ship, dropping it unceremoniously into the torrid waters. Rick could hear the screams of the crew, interspersed with pleas and tears. They all yielded to the power of the elements, being sucked down into the watery depths.

His lungs burned as he fought, his woolen coat a hindrance, dragging Rick like a noose about his neck. He couldn't tell up from down, only watching through foggy eyes as the dark outline of the ship he'd once called home sank quicker than he could have anticipated. The world was a whirl of sensation, all of it painful.

Down, down, down he went, awareness slipping, a blessing considering the pressure in his lungs. Rick shut his eyes, reaching into his pocket, fingers clasping around the gift he had not gotten to give.

The world began to go dark as a tomb when something seized him urgently, jerking him almost violently. Like a rocket, he began to jet upwards, his arms wiggling feebly as the coat was torn away, the necklace still clasped in his fist. Rick looked around, but needn't have worried. Strong hands bore him up until he broke the surface, lungs soggy and gasping for air.

"Shh," a melodic voice soothed, hands drawing him closer, sheltering him. "I have you."

"Michonne," the word hurt to speak but the relief was palpable. He could not make out her face in the darkness, but he felt her warm skin against his.

"Rick," she curled her tail beneath them, steering them away from the carnage. "I'm here."

She draped her hair over him, tilting his head forward against her shoulder. Rick allowed his body to relax, clinging to her, safe at last.

She bore them off, away towards the shore as the rain beat down around them.

-l-l-l-l-

The sea was abuzz. Michonne paused her work in her cave, peering outside at the swirling tides. A storm was brewing above, that was undeniable, wresting control of the tides from the heavens. So close to a new moon, her watery world was already unpredictable. By all rights, she should secure herself inside as planned, and wait out the danger.

Far above her, lightning rent the sky, a flash of white-light branching off like a harbinger of death. She'd been to the surface just this morning, delighted to find a handful of human coins in the basket. She'd left Rick shells, eager at the prospect of seeing him.

Thunder shook even the seas, widening Michonne's eyes. She'd watched many ships lose battles with hurricanes, vessels far grander than the modest fishing boat. A second bolt stretching across the sky erased any doubt left. She tore away from her cave, battling the rushing waters, heading for Rick.

As she swam, Michonne felt Rick's panic as acutely as though she was experiencing it herself, his anguish echoing within her own heart. The waves curled and thrashed, bound by the cruel winds above, making every stroke a fight. She blinked in the cloudy water, pausing to look. The boat's anchor was still buried in the sand, the chain spinning about uselessly, detached. Fearful now, Michonne looked up, crying out at what she saw. All around was debris, panic, bodies. Michonne searched wildly for the sight of Rick's dark jacket. When she spotted it, she dove immediately, heart pounding, desperate to save him.

Now he was cold in her arms, shivering in his sleep, his face rested in the nook of her shoulder. Michonne held Rick carefully, moving as fast as she was able, her muscles aching. The water grew warmer now as she neared the shallows with the last of her strength, tail dragging in the pebbled sand.

"Rick," she shook him gently, leaning heavily against his prone form. She could scarcely see his face, but she traced the features with one finger, committing it to memory. "Wake up," she whispered in his ear, pressing her lips to his cool skin.

He complied, blinking wildly in the dark for a moment. "Where are we?" he asked, voice raspy.

"I need help," Michonne strained, hands scraping at the sand beneath them.

Rick gained his bearings quickly. He pulled her upward, his legs working to drag them. Michonne wrapped her arms around his neck, curling her tail up to aid him. They collapsed in a heap a few feet from the waterline.

Rick's heart beat against hers, a steady, frantic flutter. His palms spanned the expanse of her back, holding her close.

"Thank you," his whisper broke around the words, his head lulling back.

Michonne cradled him, shielding him from the elements. Rick's arms held her in place, clinging like she was a lifeline. His steady breaths ruffled her hair as he fell swiftly into sleep, content and safe.

She laid her head down on his shoulder, allowing herself to relax, and joined him in slumber.

-l-l-l-l-

It was a curious sensation to wake up, half-dressed, still damp, lying in the wet sand with a mermaid atop him. Rick found he didn't mind it at all. The sun dawned bright red, creeping over the beach, throwing shadows on the desolation left behind by the storm. The ocean beyond was still and calm, bobbing debris in inch by inch. Rick gave it all a cursory glance, settling his eyes on Michonne.

She was asleep, her steady breaths ruffling his hair, her cheek pressed flush to his bare chest, her locs fanned out like a curtain around them both. Her dark tresses were adorned, a complex arrayment of trinkets fashioned expertly. Unable to resist, Rick reached out to trace it, recognizing shells and pearls similar to the gifts she'd left for him. The strand was still in his hand, twisted between his fingers, the only remnant he had of his life aboard the fishing boat.

A cocktail of emotion flooded him—grief, relief, fear, but above all, gratitude. Rick leaned forward, brushing his mouth against her cheek, holding her closer still. She smiled, turning her face into him.

"You're alive," her words tickled.

"Thanks to you," He tugged lightly at her hair.

Michonne sat up, returning the gesture, threading her fingers in his beard. She leaned her forehead against his, her headband scraping lightly.

"You know," Rick began, "I was making you a necklace. Looks like you're better at it than me." He drew his hand around her, flattening his palm to show her.

She laughed, reaching for it, holding it up in wonder. "These were for you," she chided lightly.

"I want to see them on you," the confession slipped from his mouth.

Michonne looked at him, her gaze threatening to make his insides molten. "I will show you how," she promised.

"You're sticking around?" he asked, hopeful.

She looked wistful. "Not today," she said regretfully. She paused for a moment, her eyes dropping bashfully. "I could come tonight."

Rick's heart began to race, a sudden awareness of his body sharpening. "Tonight?" he asked, sure somehow that he was dreaming.

Michonne coaxed the string of pearls and shells back into his hand, dipping her head to brush her lips across his rough skin. "Rest now," she instructed. "I will see you soon."

Rick sat up, drawing her face to his, overcome. He intended to only kiss her forehead, but Michonne had other designs. Her mouth pressed to his, a gentle gesture, sealing her promise.

"Tonight," she whispered, pulling back from him. She ducked under the water and was gone again, just a flash of color in the rising sun.

"You there!" someone was shouting from afar, rushing towards him. "Are you alright?"

Rick turned reluctantly from the sea, watching as a grizzled old man ran from the lighthouse perched on the beach's edge, looking at him as though he was a ghost.

"God," the man exclaimed as he drew closer, seeing the state of him. "You must have a guardian angel, lad." He extended a chapped hand.

Rick took it, struggling to his feet. "I think I do," he agreed, happy to accept the help.

-l-l-l-l-

The tides receded, pulled out by the siren call of the moon, invisible in the night sky. Michonne lay in wait, fussing with the ornate jewelry gracing her neck, steadying herself. She had never before taken advantage of a new moon, never harbored a desire to see the land beyond her world. Not until now.

She'd kept a close eye on Rick as she recovered her strength in her own element, observing as he came under the care of a wizened lighthouse keeper. He would be safe enough there, at least for the time being. While her worry receded, a different kind of anxiety troubled Michonne's mind. She was not the first merperson to fall for a human up above, and she doubted she would be the last. Still, the idea of the future weighed heavily on her. There was excitement, yes, but also the unknown. Rick's boat was long gone, and with it, his means of staying close to her. He would be well within rights to return to a town, leaving her behind with the shipwreck at the bottom.

The waves fell now to her waist, leaving her exposed. Michonne traced the place where her scales began and felt only smooth skin. Unsteadily, she rose to her feet, legs trembling like a newborn fawn. She marveled at them, but only for a moment. Time was precious tonight, and she had intentions for every moment of it. If this was to be the end, she would be certain that they both remembered it fondly.

Her toes left prints in the sand as she walked through the low surf, heading in the twilight for the lighthouse perched at the edge of the beach. She felt ungainly, awkward, but she found a rhythm, moving with single-minded purpose.

Rick was standing not far off, staring out at the sea. He spotted her as she drew near, his eyes going wide.

"Michonne," her name was a gasp. "How-"

She paused in front of him, resting her hands on her hips, watching as his eyes drank her in like a man parched. His mouth fell open, lips parted, chest heaving. Heat rushed through her veins, pooling between her new limbs, setting her trembling. She stepped unsteadily towards him. Rick met her halfway.

"You can't be out here like this," his voice was thick with something Michonne instantly recognized even beneath the hint of amusement. It quickened her pulse, erasing the fear.

Rick put himself between her bare body and anyone who might see, shrugging out of his brown woolen jacket to drape it over his shoulders. His hands lingered on her body, just the barest of touches against the rough fabric of the coat.

Michonne reached for him, tugging at his thin cotton shirt, drawing him closer to her. The cool air was a welcome reprieve from the searing heat between them. Rick's arms closed in on her at last, pulling her into an embrace.

"You're so beautiful," the compliment was half a whisper, his breath catching. The curls of his beard tickled the side of her face as he leaned in.

She thought much the same about Rick. The sun was setting rapidly behind her, the last of the daylight disappearing beneath the horizon. Michonne seized the opportunity to view him up close, counting the freckles dusting his nose, the curve of his lips, the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled. He drew in a shaky breath, his hands tightening around her waist before quickly releasing.

"Your legs," he began, "how?"

"It's only for the night. New moon magic," Michonne tried for the simplest explanation she could. There might be time for Rick to learn her ways, and her his, but she had no designs to learn them tonight.

He accepted this, nodding. "Is this your first time on land?" he asked quietly, smoothing his palm through her locs.

"Yes," Michonne moved closer still towards him, desperate for contact. The heat flared again, stoked by his wandering hands.

Rick pulled back a step, smiling gently, an idea sparkling just behind his eyes.

"Come on," he suggested. "I want to show you something."

Steadying her, he walked them towards the lighthouse. Sensation flooded her body, the feel of Rick's calloused palm, the sand between her toes, the way the wind danced up her legs. With it came a sense of contentment like none before.

"The old man," Rick began, his voice steady. "He offered me a place here, keeping the light." He wet his lips, casting his eyes anxiously at her, studying her reaction.

She suspected as much. The idea of Rick beside the sea thrilled her, though she considered tempering her excitement. "Will you stay?" she asked cautiously.

His smile widened at her question. He released her hand, swinging his arm around her hips. "I don't think I could go far," he observed, his eyes not on the waves, but on Michonne. "Especially now."

Her expression mirrored his, both of them flushing as they reached the lighthouse.

"Is that so?" Michonne asked, her free hand worrying at her necklace.

Rick's gaze followed the motion, dropping for a moment before flicking back up. He focused on the door in front of them instead, holding it open for her.

"There's some advantages for sure," he quipped, helping her inside. "You should see the view."

Round and round they went, Rick guiding her, shouldering her weight as Michonne's bare feet walked along the cool cement.

"Almost there," he assured her, lifting her the last few stairs.

They emerged in a circular room shrouded in glass, a glowing lantern in the center. Michonne gaped, reaching out for it.

"It's hot," she held her palm near it in wonder.

Rick only watched, smiling. "That's not the best part," he told her, pointing at a small door.

They emerged on a narrow metal balcony. There was barely enough room to move, but Michonne did not mind. Rick held her close, embracing her from behind, turning her to look out at the horizon beyond.

"I've never seen it like this," she gaped, taking it all in. Her world, marvelous from beneath the waves, was a sparkling oasis at a bird's eye view, a canvas in which all the stars in the heavens were reflected.

"Do you like it?" Rick questioned eagerly.

"I do," Michonne said. Beautiful as it was, there was only one sight she yearned to look on tonight. She turned, coming face to face with Rick again.

Rick's mouth was on her's at once, urgent and demanding. Her breath caught and he seized the opportunity, pulling her closer still. She steadied herself, wrapping her arms around his neck, enjoying his rough hands on her hips, the softness of his lips, the groans slipping from his throat as they traded air between them.

Her legs, still so new to this world, grew weak and she began to fall, but Rick caught her, holding her against him.

"I've got you," he promised her, kissing her again.

-l-l-l-l-

Rick had taken the long stairs down as quickly as he dared, half-carrying Michonne. He'd held her before, but never had the act cost him so much in self-control, or threatened to leave him so dumbstricken. He'd supposed that he'd become accustomed to her beauty, but tonight Michonne proved him wrong. The sight of her naked, still dripping from her walk from the sea, would echo in his mind until the day he died.

The distance to the watchhouse seemed infinite, but they made it to the door, cracking it open.

"Hello?" he called, some logical scrap of his brain remembering to not intrude on the hospitality of the elderly and kind lighthouse keeper.

"He left a note," Michonne spotted the piece of paper first, held down by an aging lantern.

Rick lit the wick, leaning in to read the crooked sprawl. "Saw the lass. Thought you might like some privacy," he read outloud.

A chuckle rumbled in his chest, but Rick's humor quickly evaporated when Michonne laid a palm on his back. He turned to her, mouth running dry at the look in her wide dark eyes.

"We are alone then?" she asked, her voice low, her hand tightening on his shoulder.

Rick turned. "We're alone."

Michonne took a step back from him, sweeping her hair up into one hand as she tugged it loose from the coat. Rick reached for her, loath to have an inch between them, but froze as she shimmied. The heavy brown jacket, on loan from the now completely forgotten lighthouse keeper, fluttered to the floor.

When she'd emerged from the ocean, Rick had done his best to avert his eyes, trying to maintain his tenuous grasp on chivalry. Here in the dark of the watchhouse, he drank her in from head to toe. The flame from the lantern threw shadows and light across Michonne, dancing in patterns down her skin like gold. It caught her necklace, glinting and shimmering. Her locs, streaked with bronze in the rays of the sun, were ebon at night, hanging to her waist. They did little to disguise the rest of her. When they met, she'd shirked from him, hiding herself. Now she stood proud, chin up.

His heart caught in his chest, a thrumming pounding in his ears. His limbs felt heavy, his feet like lead. Michonne was all that he loved about the sea: the waves, the shore, the sand, the breeze. He longed to tell her but the words died in his throat. He could only manage one question, barely more than a rumble, his throat dry.

"Are you sure?" Rick asked thickly, swallowing the heat rising in him.

Michonne nodded, resting her hands on her shoulders. She reached behind her, removing the necklace, the last barrier between them. Without taking her gaze off of Rick, she laid it on the table beside the lantern.

"I'm sure," she told him, smiling.

Rick was on her at once, tugging her into his arms. She came willingly, giggling, grasping at him. Her laughter transformed when Rick cupped her round ass in both palms, squeezing harder than he intended. Her delighted gasp and little moan surprised him, but not nearly as much as her hand creeping down to the hem of his pants, tugging frantically.

"I want to see you," Michonne begged, a note of desperation in her voice.

Rick indulged her at once, releasing her to fiddle with the buttons. Her nimble fingers joined his, working them open and yanking them down. He left her to her task, reaching for the hem of his shirt to pull it up and over his head. When he was as bare as she, Rick stood still, trembling as Michonne inspected him. She took him in, trailing her hands down, past raised hills of scar tissue, freckles and light brown hair.

"Good?" he asked, nervous.

"Very," Michonne answered, a hungry expression growing on her lovely face.

Pride spiked white hot in his chest. Rick pulled her towards him, skin on skin, his hands spanning her waist before he moved them lower. She sighed, lulling against him. He stroked her, marveling at the softness of her.

"That feels nice," she murmured, keening. Rick grinned, continuing his exploration. When he found his way between her thighs, she began to writhe outright. "Oh," her mouth fell open.

Rick kissed her, delighting as she clung tighter to him. "I've got you," he promised, lifting her, bearing her towards the bed in the corner. He laid her down as gently as he could, hovering over to watch her.

He wasn't sure what force made this possible, what magic had chosen him, saved him for this moment. He wasn't sure it even mattered now. Michonne was beneath him, staring up at him. For the first time since Rick laid eyes on her, she looked somewhat uncertain.

"Rick," she called his name, trembling beneath him.

"Are you ok?" he asked, pausing. He lifted his body off of hers, giving her space.

Michonne rolled back into him immediately, pulling him down towards her. "I am," she assured him in a steady voice. She reached up, stroking his hair. "This is all new," she reminded him, curling her legs around his waist.

Rick found himself nodding. "It is," he agreed.

He'd been with women before, even loved a time or two. This, whatever it was, eclipsed all of his meager experience with romance. Rick began again, trailing his hands up, stroking her until her breathing became fragmented. Her hips wound a steady rhythm against his fingers.

"Good?" he asked, pressing his lips to her neck, trailing sucking kisses everywhere he could reach.

"Yes," she gasped, giggling. Her legs tightened around him, drawing him to her, the heat of her like a siren's call. She pushed his hand aside, reaching for him, grasping him surely.

There was a world of sensation he longed to show her, each option as tempting as the next, but Michonne was growing impatient beneath him. Rick obliged her by bending to kiss her soundly. He thrust forward, watching the shock and pleasure play out on her face.

He could feel her trembling, but he knew he was shaking too, the shared sensation threatening to blind them both to anything but the pleasure at hand. Rick happily tumbled into it, listening as Michonne moaned and panted, rolling her hips like the waves of their beloved sea, meeting him stroke for stroke.

"Rick," his name was a ragged whisper. Her eyes snapped shut, her face contorting as she chased her pleasure. Her hands found the curls of his hair, tugging him down. Rick went willingly, breathing her in.

He hiked her legs higher, doubling his efforts, moaning when she rewarded him by clenching tighter still.

"Michonne," it was the only word he could think to say, the only one that mattered now.

She smiled, resplendent in the lantern light. "I'm here," she answered, leaning up to kiss him.

-l-l-l-l-

Michonne was sore in the most pleasant of ways, her body humming. She exhaled, content and exhausted. Outside, beyond the beach and beneath the tides, she could feel the pull of home, the order to return coursing through her veins. She felt an acute pang of sadness. There were women in this world who fell asleep in the arms of their lovers every night, who enjoyed the warmth of being naked in bed and the dull, loving ache that followed.

"Don't do that,' Rick chided, stretching beneath her.

"Do what?" she craned her neck to look up at him. He was disheveled, his hair a whirlwind, his beard sticking out at odd angles. He possessed an endearing quality, unguarded, relaxed, and just as content as she.

Rick brushed her locs aside, pressing his fingers to the lines that creased her forehead. "Don't worry," he said. "Whatever it is."

"And how would you know I'm worrying?" She kissed his chest.

"I just know," he murmured, rolling over.

His body covered hers, a comforting weight and warmth. She began to relax as Rick's hands ran over her legs, curving over the swell of her ass before smoothing out on her lower back. His mouth found her skin again, pressing nipping kisses. She enjoyed the novelty of him on top of her, between the legs that were fading fast.

"Rick," she called her lover's name, her voice hoarse from doing much the same for hours on end.

He paused, laying his head against her back. "It's time?" he guessed.

"It is," she said regretfully.

She could sense his sadness, but he did not give it a voice. Instead, he kissed her shoulder, pushing himself up from the mattress.

"Then we better get you back," he said simply, smiling at her.

Rick helped her stand, turning her to clasp the necklace back around her, tugging her locs to one side to aid him in his work. He ran his finger over the shells, pausing at the coins he'd given her, recognizing them at last.

"We think alike," he observed, chuckling.

Michonne turned, cupping his face between her hands. "We do," she told him, kissing him soundly.

He gathered her in his arms, wrapping her in the jacket as he carried her outside and back to the surf. The horizon was growing bright with the promise of sunshine, the calm after the storm.

"I'll see you soon?" he asked, his voice hopeful.

Michonne smiled, dipping the toes that were quickly becoming fins back into the water. "A lighthouse keeper sees all kinds of things," she observed, working to keep the longing from her voice.

The thought of a future together, of what they could teach one another, eased the sting of leaving him now. She leaned up for one last embrace, kissing him sweetly.

"Soon?" Rick repeated, his hands tightening around her, much the way they did when he first delivered her to the sea after rescuing her.

"Soon," Michonne assured him, pressing her lips to the bridge of his nose. "Rest. Heal. I will be back."

The water surged around their feet. Michonne slipped from the coat and Rick's arms, back into her element. He watched, eyes full of wonder.

"Until next time, Michonne," Rick called to her, straightening up again.

Michonne dove. Her body returned to its true form at once, rejoicing to be home. Still, the low ache lingered, reminding her that it would be another month before she could walk on land. She looked back up at the surface, watching Rick's face, warmed by the expression of adoration as he watched her. She would see him soon, of that she was certain.

She swam away leisurely, regaining her strength. Seagrass stretched out from the sandy bottom of the shallows, reaching for the heavens. Michonne gathered it, settling in the underwater field to begin weaving another basket. This one would need to be sturdy, to hold up to the task of moving daily between their two worlds.

With a smile, Michonne bent to her work.

-l-l-l-l-

It was a cloudless indigo night, the stars shining bright above, unhindered by the absence of the moon. Rick hadn't given the heavens more than a cursory glance despite their resplendence. The whole of his focus was on the woman in front of him.

A breeze danced off the waters, cooling the humid summer air. Rick held Michonne closer, his thumb tracing a small raised scar at her waist. The thin fabric of her dress did little to shield her from his touch. It clung to her like a second skin, spun silver threaded with gold, the hem dragging in the sand beneath them. Rick gathered it in a fist, aiding her as she walked beside him. Michonne took steady steps, keeping pace with him, her skin still dewey from the sea.

"Beautiful night for it," the lighthouse keeper observed, watching them as they approached.

Michonne smiled, turning toward Rick, beaming at him. He knew his face was similarly split, his cheeks stinging from the wideness of his grin. He could make out the contours of her features through the lace of her veil, her wide dark eyes staring at him like he was the only thing in the world that mattered. He longed to lift it off of her, to kiss her until she gasped and melted in his arms. There would be time enough for that later.

"You have the rings?" the lighthouse keeper asked again, indulging them for a moment before losing patience.

Rick nodded, taking his place beneath the beam of light from above, holding Michonne's hands in his own as she faced him.

It was a quick ceremony, unfussed, with none of the poetry or airs that some might have been accustomed to. That was the reality of life near the sea, and neither Rick nor Michonne minded. Whether they stood in a grand cathedral or between their two worlds, the result was the same.

His new gold band sat snuggly on his left-hand ring finger, mirroring its twin on Michonne's hand. Rick bent to kiss it, pulling Michonne closer to him. Her fingers tightened around his, her toes brushing his bare feet in the sand.

"Then it's done," the lighthouse keeper announced with a grizzled chuckle. "I suppose you ought to kiss. Make it official."

Rick was in motion already, reluctantly releasing Michonne's hands to reach for her veil. He lifted it, breath catching at the way the starlight played on her face. She leaned up for him and he met her halfway, kissing one another soundly.

When Rick hefted his wife into his arms, unable to resist cupping her firmly through her dress, the lighthouse keeper spoke up again.

"Alright, alright," he snorted, shutting his weather-worn Bible. "Give me a moment to leave, at least."

Rick pulled back, flushed, dizzily lowering Michonne back to the sand. She steading him, staying close, even as she turned fond eyes on his former employer.

"Dale," Rick began, turning towards the man.

Dale held up a hand in response. "No need to waste the words. This is yours now." He swept a palm to the lighthouse and the watchhouse beside it, looking at them fondly for a moment. He sighed, grinning crookedly. "Take care of it," he instructed. "And each other."

"We will," Michonne vowed, tugging lightly at Dale's beard until the old man blushed.

"Save that for your husband," he grumbled, all faux bad humor. Still, he offered her a small smile.

He was gone as suddenly as he'd arrived a year ago, off to enjoy his retirement in peace. Rick stood with Michonne, clinging to her hand, staring up at the home that now belonged to them.

"Rick," Michonne called his name.

He turned to look at her, in awe that she was here, that she remained by his side. Day after day she returned, sitting with him in the shallows, conversing and laughing, watching him as he worked and assisting where she could. When work left him the energy, Rick would take to the sea with her, diving as she giggled, delighted to have him in her element. It was a life he could never have imagined for himself, and one he had no intention of running from.

There were easier paths to take for the both of them, of that he was sure. Still, he woke everyday eager for a glimpse of her beneath the waves waiting for him. It was the great fortune of a lighthouse keeper's acolyte to stay close to the sea. And on nights like this, when the moon retreated and took the tides with her, they could be truly together.

"Michonne," Rick tugged lightly at her locs, trailing his hand down towards the ornate jewelry draped over her neck. It had taken them the better part of a year to finish the necklace, a delicate collection of both of their worlds, woven together into something beautiful.

"Are you ready, husband?" Michonne prompted gently, aware as she always was of the limited time beneath a new moon.

"Call me that again," Rick grinned, sweeping her off her feet.

"Husband?" she asked innocently, draping her arms around his neck.

"Yes," he chuckled, carrying her towards the watchhouse, newly painted and ready for the road ahead.

"My husband," Michonne's voice dropped, the low, loving tone she took whenever they were alone.

Rick pushed the door open, bearing her inside. He leaned down to kiss her, holding her close.

"I like the sound of that," he muttered against his wife's lips, kicking the door shut behind them as Michonne laughed.


End file.
